


so said my soul

by glimmerkeith



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Magical Realism, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:44:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9818951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glimmerkeith/pseuds/glimmerkeith
Summary: To the vast majority, the world always remains black and white, forever devoid of any color. An entire new world becomes unlocked, it's said, after you meet a certain person—many go their whole lives unaware of such a thing, stuck behind a shut door. New university student Paul has plenty of cause to believe his life is taking a turn, but he never was really counting on meeting John Lennon—nor all the changes that come with that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was written for the mclennon fanfic exchange over on tumblr--many thanks to paula for putting such an amazing event together!! my prompt was "everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate", and since i love the whole concept of soulmate aus, here we are. it also came with some small-scale world-building involved, like how people carry themselves and all: how special must you feel to see the world as it's meant to be? what if you're somebody who never gets that chance? 
> 
> it's the first time i've written anything of length and substance in quite a while. i do hope that my exchange partner (and anyone else who cares to read it) enjoys it!
> 
> this will also be a chaptered story, with updates coming out fairly regularly, so look out for them! i am taking advantage of the march 15 deadline, but it won't take me that long to get it done.

_"...such verses for my body let us write (for we are one)"_

_—_ Walt Whitman _,_ 1876

* * *

In the first weeks that followed his mother’s death, a couple of odd flashbulb moments and memories were destined to remain stamped in Paul McCartney’s mind for years afterwards. They were odd, disjointed, and seemingly random. For one thing, he could not remember the last words he had ever spoken to her, but the pattern of the blanket resting on her bed at the hospital stood out as clear as day.

He wouldn’t be able to recall just precisely what time it was when his father came back from the hospital, the weight of the world evident in the slump in his shoulders, but he remembered the last neatly-folded pile of laundry that Mary had had time to do before she collapsed, before the beginning of the end for her. The pile was mostly of nice shirts for him and Mike, his little brother, and neither of them dared to touch them in the days that followed, as if terrified to disturb anything that her hands had recently been on.

Even the funeral was a bit of a blur to him, Mikey’s face as starch-white as their neat shirts, his father sobbing dryly on the shoulders of relatives. But Paul could remember the flower pinned to Aunt Gin’s lapel, and the stained glass shapes in the church windows in their varying shades of gray. Depicting moments of miracles.

And there was something else that stood out to him too, something that rooted deep inside the mind of a teenage boy whose life had momentarily gone numb. “All the color’s gone out of the world,” Jim McCartney had said heavily, not long after he told his sons about their mother’s passing. “It’s all gone.”

He would say it again later, at Mary’s funeral. Those who didn’t understand attributed it to the rambling of a grieving widower who had lost his steady support and his children’s mother at the tragically young age of 47. Those who did could offer no words of comfort that were strong enough, that would bring back what had been lost.

But slowly, the little family had to learn to pick itself up once again. Mike took to spending more and more time away from home, and though Paul might have been inclined to do the same, he couldn’t stand the idea of leaving Jim alone to face such things himself. They packed up Mary’s old clothes and other possessions together, aiming to donate as much of they could but preserve what wasn’t too painful to hold onto.

And all the while, even after his tears had dried, the same air of loss clung to Jim like a heavy shroud. Keeping busy, it transpired, helped Paul immensely—he threw himself into schoolwork, began practicing more with the guitar that had been a birthday gift last year, and worked around the house. Whenever he thought the sorrow might weigh him down too much, he found ways to shake it off.

Jim did the same. Once the long stretch of late autumn and winter was over (their first Christmas without Mary had been brutal, a particularly rough spot in a long season), he returned to the garden in the backyard that he had cultivated for years. Though he seemed to be happiest out there, always puttering around at odd hours and shouting for one of his sons to bring him a cup of tea, Paul noticed how initially, even the beloved garden seemed to bring a sense of sadness with it.

His father would reach out to inspect some dark gray roses, or check on a new row of black lilies that were rising—and the longing, wistful expression on his face would be all but tangible. “It’s like all the life is gone,” Jim remarked once, his voice quiet. “I hope to God you never go through this, Paul.”

At the time, Paul had had little idea of the full scope of his father’s words. He was enduring his own kind of grief, dealing with his own hole in the world, and he couldn’t possibly understand what exactly Jim was talking about.

Not at that moment, anyway.

* * *

 

“It’s not so bad, Paul. At least Ivan will be here with you.”

Jim’s voice contained a distinct note of forced cheeriness as he looked around Paul’s tiny bedroom in the communal flat, sizing up every crack and lone water spot with the well-practiced eye of a housekeeper. It wasn’t like Paul was going to be living in squalor, but his new cramped quarters didn’t offer a lot in the way of much of…anything.

Still, he didn’t really care much. The fact remained that it was his, he and his friend, Ivan Vaughan, had bought it for an absolute steal from someone online—and the place hadn’t been crawling with rats, so that was a definitive plus. What was more, it was within reasonable walking distance of University College London, where they’d both be starting their first year.

Already, there was something about living in the city that was near-infectious. Paul had taken trips here many times before in his life, but to become a resident was something altogether. Though hardly growing up in a sleepy country town himself, the capital had always held something more—something entrancing, invigorating, so many new places to see and things to do.

And people to meet. Besides Ivan and a few distant friends who lived elsewhere in London, Paul didn’t really know much of anyone down here.

“You’ve got a killer view of the bins outside,” Mike remarked with a grin, pointing out the window to where the building’s enormous garbage bins lurked. “Makes for a lovely sight.”

“Oh, stuff it,” Paul advised him, almost throwing one of the loose socks in his suitcase at him but opting to just cram it in a drawer for now, to be dealt with along with the rest of his clothes at a later time. Already, the little room was turning into something of a mess with all of his possessions taking up the space in the closet, the bed, and the desk that was for him.

Residing in one corner was his most prized possession—his guitar in its case. Nothing in the world could have kept him from bringing the instrument along with him, and he certainly hoped any next-door neighbors wouldn’t be too bothered by the sound of music playing at all hours.

Jim soon wandered off to go inspect the kitchen, and Mike trailed after him, leaving Paul to unpack some more. He was interrupted by his friend and now his flatmate, Ivan, who poked his head in around the door frame.

“Your dad’s saying something about how the kitchen needs a good scrub already. Mad, eh?” With his glasses and hair attempted to be neatly combed, Ivan already looked like a miniature version of the Classics professor he hoped to be someday, but his face was alight with a grin now instead.

“Typical,” Paul sighed. “I mean, we’ll get around to it eventually, won’t we?”

“Oh, eventually.”

Ivan was clutching something in his hand, what appeared to be a flyer of some sort, and he held it out to Paul’s curious gaze. “Oh…someone gave this to me earlier when I was getting all the keys. I guess they have all these ‘welcome to uni, you first-year sods’ events. Parties and stuff. But _then_ this other girl said that the _real_ party isn’t until later, at the end of next week.”

The flyer simply listed the dates and times of various social events for the new incoming students, including a miniature street fair and yes, a party in one of the school’s dance halls. “Well, who says we can’t do it all?” Paul asked his friend with a smile of his own. “Classes don’t start for another week yet—we’ve got time to waste.”

It wasn’t exactly a work ethic that Jim McCartney would have approved of, but Paul didn’t voice these thoughts aloud to his dad. When the time finally came to say goodbye to his family, he was fully prepared for a clap on the shoulder or the like, and was instead surprised to find himself enveloped in a brief but still sincere hug. Even when Paul had taken some of his gap year before starting university to travel around Scotland and Ireland for a few months, his father hadn’t made such a gesture.

“You take care, understand?” Jim said, a little gruffly, but with a proud smile on his face as he looked at his university-bound son. The day Paul had gotten his acceptance letter had been one of the proudest of his dad’s life—he had pinned it to their fridge with a magnet and kept it there for weeks.

Looking into his face, Paul couldn’t help but feel a small stab of guilt—but then resolve.

“I will. And don’t let Mike take my bedroom, all right?”

He could just faintly hear his brother’s protests before the car window rolled up, as the family car turned into the street to begin the drive home. Paul lifted his hand in one last wave, and it was a long time past when the vehicle disappeared around a turn down the road that he finally lowered it.

* * *

 

“Guess who’s back? Oi, Stu, open the bloody door, don’t tell me you’ve changed the locks on me—”

But the door to the little flat swung open before John could continue pounding on it, revealing a highly disgruntled-looking Stuart…who nevertheless gave a grin when he saw his friend outside, weighed down with bags like a pack mule.

“John! I wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon—”

“Decided to make it a surprise, baby. Don’t tell me you’ve got some chick here that stayed the night—haven’t been naughty, have we? What would Astrid think?”

“Astrid went home last night,” Stu assured him as John came shoving into the flat with all his belongings. “I’ve just been…painting. That’s all. Did a bit of redecorating while you were away.”

John could see that much, even though he had only been gone around a fortnight—Mimi was insistent that he not forget her and spend some time at home every once in a while. But while he had been gone, it looked like Stu had certainly kept busy (outside of his girlfriend visiting, that was). The whole flat _did_ look rather cleaner, and Stu had moved many of his canvases into the living room space, both finished ones and works in-progress. There was absolutely no disguising any of the pure talent that was on display now, and one didn’t need to be able to see color to determine that.

But. It likely would have _helped._

Still, John didn’t know what that was like—the world remained stubbornly black and white to him, a wash that led to too much struggling whenever he tried to channel his own artwork. He liked to joke that was why he became a literature student instead, but that wasn’t far from the honest truth.

Stuart was one of the lucky ones, one of the few people John knew who had unlocked that mystery of the world, who had his eyes opened, who could _see._ See things he couldn’t even talk to John about, because until you experienced it for yourself, there was simply no way to describe it to someone who hadn’t.

And Stu claimed that nothing had changed for him until after he met Astrid, the lovely German photographer he had been seeing for a couple years now. One trip abroad, one chance meeting at some hole in the wall café, and there you had it—a curtain had been lifted, and Stu’s artistic talent and creativity had flourished. It was all just so fucking perfect.

There also weren’t any words for the envy and bitter longing John felt as a result. Especially since a part of him had dared to hope, that if the unveiling was triggered by certain people...

Well, what he had hoped once was a thing of the past now. Stu certainly didn’t talk about it much, and John could feel a slow division growing in between them that had everything to do with…whatever this was. That Stuart was special now, and John just couldn’t keep up.

All these thoughts and more swirled around in his head as he surveyed the flat, which abruptly felt a little less like a home than it ever had before. He and Stu had been living here since they came to uni together, it had always been theirs, but now something seemed off.

 _Astrid._ Maybe—he certainly envied her, and the world she and Stuart seemed to share together.

But he shrugged all that off for now, instead giving the rather slight Stu a vigorous smack on the shoulder. “You’ll soon have this place turned into a regular studio, son—I don’t mind.” Within a couple days, many of John’s things would gradually migrate out of his room and come to turn the place into a right mess, a good, lived-in sign. Not that of a makeshift art gallery, surrounded by beauty that John couldn’t wholly partake in.

He retreated back to the room that was his own, and alone remained undisturbed. The bed was still a mess from where he hadn’t made it on his last day here, a crumpled packet of crisps still lying on the floor and clothes spilling from the wardrobe as he had packed. Residing on the windowsill was a plate with something dark still stuck to it, and a coffee mug that had a murky, now ice-cold liquid lingering in the bottom of it.

Ignoring all this, John got to work unpacking, stuffing clean clothes back in his dresser and chucking the dirty ones into the laundry basket. He dumped almost all his bags on the floor without ceremony, ignoring the faint rattling within and only taking the time to be gentle with the guitar case that he left up on his bed.

“Oi…” From the doorway, John could hear Stu’s quiet, almost tentative voice. “You’re not angry or anything, are you? I thought I told you Astrid would be staying over while you were away.”

“You might have, yeah. It’s hardly a big deal to have a chick over, Stu, I’d be a right hypocrite if I gave you any hell for it.”

It was a true statement, but something of a frown crossed over Stu’s more delicate features. “Astrid isn’t just…some girl, John. You know what she means to me.”

“Yeah. I know.” And despite himself, John had to soften just a little. He could hardly be annoyed (jealous) over something that was well out of Stu’s control.

Determined to change the subject, he busied himself with pushing his sticker-covered guitar case aside so he could sit down on the edge of his bed and look back at Stuart. “You didn’t get any practicing done while I was away, huh?"

“Er…” Stuart shifted a little, looking guilty. “Well…with Astrid and all, and my work—”

“Skived off, did you? We’ll get you in shape by the time of our next gig, don’t worry.” Never mind that the next gig was penciled in for just a couple weeks away.

But for as adapt as he was with a paintbrush, with charcoal and sketches, playing the bass in John’s band, The Quarry Men, was proving to be more of an uphill battle with Stuart. He could practice for hours and somehow his fingers, so precise and skillful with his art, would never fail to fumble, resulting in an off-key plucking and twanging that drove everyone else to distraction.

Had it been anyone else, John likely would have booted them from the band a long time ago. But the way he saw it, everyone was entitled to a couple weaknesses…and Stuart still wasn’t quite done with his tenure of being one of his.

Obviously keen to move ahead, Stuart scuffed at the floor with his shoe. “And, uh…Cyn was over here yesterday, just so you know. Didn’t you get any of her text messages?”

“I got…some of them.” And might have forgotten about some of the others from his on-again, off-again girlfriend.

“Well, she says that there’s going to be a couple parties before term starts—especially with a new crop of freshers. Ringo says they’re already looking for a good crowd Friday night at Prism.”

“Yeah? I bet there’s a couple who could, uh, use an older student to show them around—”

“You’re not just going to pick up some arse, are you?” But Stuart’s flickering grin already made it clear the answer, as John mocked covering his mouth in a scandalized gesture.

“Who, me? _Never!_ But, I…I’ll text Cyn then too. Don’t worry about it.”

“I never do.” There was something nearly sardonic in Stuart’s voice then, but he took his leave soon afterward to leave John to his unpacking. As soon as his footsteps faded away, however, the easy smile on John’s face slipped away, and he had to take a seat on his bed.

Christ, he couldn’t keep stringing Cynthia along like this. She was a lovely girl, sweet and patient, and…well, more than he deserved. He _liked_ her, yes, but thinking about her brought only a feeling of guilt and somewhere below that, a welling loneliness.

It was the kind of thing his superficial relationship with Cyn couldn’t change, the kind of thing that the little pills in the bottle stuffed in his bag couldn’t change. Or the flashing, colorless lights at a night club, illuminating washed-out, gyrating bodies as they danced. As they forgot for a little while. But it had to be enough for now.

 ***

The week before term began passed by at an alarmingly quick pace for Paul. Jim had often lectured his elder son on the virtue of patience, but it was one that had never quite taken for him, and certainly not now. He and Ivan found ways to pass the time, exploring their new city and milling around campus, getting the feel of the place. They encountered plenty of other students this way, some starting their first year like them, others who were back for another round.

As anticipated, all the initial meetings and activities about starting their time here at uni were a bit of a wash—Paul spent much of the time in the crowded auditorium doodling and jotting down a couple loose song lyric fragments. Ivan wasn’t much better, his own interest in music was leading to him already chattering about finding an on-campus band to join together.

In the meantime, they wandered around the city and soon became acquainted with various shops, sights, and cafes that were bound to keep them busy throughout term. One of their favorite places to eat quickly became a little corner shop with a spectacular view of the river and the city skyline just past it, a scenic angle that inspired Paul to draw a little once again.

He started to notice familiar faces there each day, even people who take their daily jogs along the river at the same time without fail. Or at least, he thought he did—in this world, it could be trickier to distinguish people from one another, especially from a distance. It was easy, always easy, to feel lost.

It didn’t take the employees at the café long to get used to him either, not for as long as he spent tucked into his usual seat by the window and sketching or composing, a song never far from his mind. One of the blokes Paul usually spotted working there couldn’t have been any older than him, a skinny kid with intense features and dark eyes that didn't seem to miss much when he was busy bustling around the shop to clean tables and take orders. “All right, then?” He’d stop and ask Paul every so often, but his eyes would flick curiously downwards to the sheets of paper he was scribbling on. After a couple go-rounds of this, Paul began leaving some of the work he would finish deliberately pushed to the edge of the table, where it would be easier to show off.

Ivan was with him on one such occasion, in one of their last remaining free days before term began. They had exhausted all possible conversation about the upcoming term at this point, as well as talk of the new people they had met thus far, and for now, the only topic of debate was what their social life was going to look like this weekend.

“That so-called ‘ball’ _was_ a total waste of time,” Ivan said as they settled down with their coffees and food. “Honestly, I think the student union gave it their best shot, but…”

“Didn’t expect anything different,” Paul reminded him, throwing his bag down on the floor next to him. “It’s supposedly the _rave_ or whatever tomorrow night that’s going to be interesting.”

“You mean the one at Prism?” But it wasn’t Ivan who asked the question—it was a new voice, a different one, but Paul wasn’t wholly surprised to look round and realize that it was the busser speaking, piling up dirty dishes from the next-door table and plainly listening in to the conversation. When two pairs of eyes landed on him, he looked rather embarrassed, and quickly ducked his head so his hair shielded his eyes from view.

“I mean, uh—sorry, didn’t mean to butt in all intrusive-like—”

“It’s fine,” Paul assured him, beginning to smile a bit. “I’m guessing you know all about it too, then?”

“Well, yeah.” The busser scuffed one of his high top shoes along the ground, though he was daring to make eye contact once again. “Only it’s supposed to be a really big party and all—I dunno if I like them much, but a friend’s got me talked into going.” The flash of his smile then revealed more of a craggy grin, and Ivan returned it.

“Are you a student at the university then?”

“Oh, me? No…nothing like that. I might save up someday, but it’s…” His voice trailed off awkwardly for a moment, clearly uncomfortable with the position he had found himself in, and Paul decided to interject in a hopefully helpful sort of way.

“It’s not for everyone,” He said simply. “And I’m the one who’s been dead rude, my dad would have a fit—we haven’t even got your name, nor you ours. I’m Paul, this here is Ivan. And we _have_ been summoned to heed the call of university for a while.”

“I’m George, George Harrison.” The busser’s smile was still a little more on the shy side. “What are you lot in for, then? I would imagine something…music-related and all.”

“Right you are,” Paul said. “And that’s something you’re interested in then too?” There was no mistaking the knowing implication in his voice then, and George looked as if he wanted to disappear through the floorboards.

“Oh, bloody hell…I’m sorry, honestly, I was just curious—”

Paul couldn’t help but give a small chortle while Ivan rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, George—if you paid the slightest bit of attention towards Paul’s stuff, he’s already going to like you.”

His friend chucked a napkin over at him in retaliation, but George seemed to have notably relaxed. “Well, some of it looked good.”

“Just some of it?” Paul mocked offense as he covered his heart, and George seemed to be catching on with the banter here.

“Let’s just say it’s a good thing you’re going to a fancy school to get an education about it, yeah?”

At this, Ivan burst into genuine laughter, and after a beat of stunned silence, even Paul to join in. “Tell us how you really feel, George! You’ve got anything better in your own back pocket then?”

He couldn’t linger long, not when he had a job here to be doing, but the short conversation they had was a good one. George was a self-taught guitar player too, and they talked shop for a bit before a woman from behind the counter gave him one too many sharp looks and he had to return back to work. He picked up the tub that contained the dirty dishes, balancing it carefully as he finished up speaking to them.

“I expect I’ll be seeing you both around them—and tomorrow night too.” George’s crooked grin was alight with a certain kind of mischief, and as he turned away to go see to another customer, Paul decided that he couldn’t help but like him.

“That was great,” Ivan declared brightly. “Anyone who’s willing to knock you down a peg or two is good in my book.”

“Some friend you are!” Paul complained, but he too appreciated the frankness of their new acquaintance, not to mention his musical know-how. There was certainly something there.

“But…god, with the way everyone’s going on about it, this party tomorrow better be something else, eh?” Ivan inquired from around the lip of his coffee cup, and Paul gave an amicable shrug.

“Oh, you know…it’s just some night at a club here. Probably fun, sure, but how amazing can it really be?”

***

In the past couple days, John had seen the campus crawling with plenty of new bodies already. Most of them were bright-eyed and excited, eager to be exploring their new turf and meeting new people, but it gave him and the other upperclassmen a chance for eye-rolling if nothing else.

“Bloody _freshers.”_ He couldn’t even go to his favorite spot in the nearby park to read and have a smoke without tripping over some new kids playing a game of pick-up football.

It was hardly the only thing getting under his skin. The plastic baggie he had been handed two weeks ago in a dark hallway outside the toilets at another club was starting to burn a proverbial hole in his dresser drawer, especially as its contents depleted. Last term, he had received a warning lecture from Stuart about keeping up the habit he had adopted, and the guilt alone had almost got him to quit cold turkey—almost.

Mimi would flay him alive if she knew, but he’d kept it quiet while he was back home on holiday. Now that he had returned to uni and the drug scene that circled around it like a flock of crows, he knew it was only a matter of short time before he would have to get another fix.

The thought was persistent in the back of his mind, like a nagging but dully annoying itch, as he traipsed back home to get ready to go out tonight. John was delayed only once, when a group of kids playing in a nearby yard accidentally let their football roll out and into the street, kicking it back to them and smiling a bit when they waved in thanks.

The feeling didn’t last long. By the time he had returned to the flat, taken a quick shower and gotten dressed, Stuart was back too—but he wasn’t alone. They all turned around as John marched into the living room, three people that he vaguely recognized but couldn’t quite place, until he realized they must be classmates of Stu’s from the art college.

“Oh…hi, John,” Stuart seemed almost surprised to see him, but recovered quickly. “I thought you were going out to Prism tonight.”

“I am. Bring all these guys for the pre-drinks, did you? Well, the more the merrier—“

“Er…not really.” Now Stuart looked guiltier, as his other friends strategically pretended to be checking their phones or glancing around the room. “I think we’re gonna skip the club tonight, John, we’re meeting some people later—but you could come along if you wanted, I mean—“

Something harder curled inside John’s stomach at his tone during the offer, at his expression—it was a hand-out, something of a gesture of pity. Stu felt _bad_ for him, and he suspected it had to do with something more than conflicting social schedules and friend groups. He couldn’t possibly take the bait now.

“Off to some uber-chic café to wax philosophical and listen to shite beat poetry like your lot does? No, thank you. If I wanted a headache, I’d drink myself into oblivion instead.”

The corners of the one girl’s mouth twitched, but Stuart’s expression got notably darker, something flickering across it like both disappointment and relief at the same time. But at least he didn’t fight it, instead merely gave a sigh and a little nod. “OK. Have it your way.”

But the words felt like more of an empty promise as Stuart went back to his room to grab his coat, then shortly departed with his friends—but not before he paused in the doorway. “No, you all go ahead, I’ll catch up,” He told them quietly, and when they had gone, he turned around to face John, whose mental hackles were already raised, suspecting a fight. It seemed like there was more to say here between them.

“You don’t have to act like this, you know,” Stuart said flatly. “You’ve been skulking about all week, either not here or shut up in your room—I know it can’t be…quite easy for you, but—”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” John declared before Stuart could say any more. “I don’t give it a passing thought, really. And I don’t need any of your damn pity for it.”

For half a heartbeat, Stuart looked hurt…but then he shook it off, seemingly steeling himself as well. “Well, then…I hope you find what you’re looking for, John. But you know that it can’t be with me.” The stricken feeling must have been visible on John’s face for a beat in time too, and there was a great deal of pity and understanding on Stu’s—but then he seemed to remember where he was, and brought them both back to reality. “We…we can talk later, if you want. I gotta go.”

And John let him, the sound of the door clicking behind him echoing as loudly as a gunshot.

For a moment, John hovered in the kitchen, a part of him wanting very much to hurry along after them—but he had to save face now. Annoyed at himself and annoyed that he was, he turned around to begin rooting through the kitchen cabinets and then fix himself a drink.

They were horribly low on supplies anyway, there wouldn’t have been enough to host a group for pre-drinking—but there was enough in an old bottle of whiskey left for John to splash into a shot glass, then throw it back like it was nothing. It burned a little going down, vision swimming for a short moment in time, almost blotting out all the grey around him. Almost.

There had to be more. Before he left the flat, John made sure he took a wad of cash with him.

* * *

 

All around the mass of milling, dancing bodies, the lights pulsed on and off, creating startling bursts like camera flashes in the spacious interior of the nightclub. Prism was huge, not like anything Paul had seen back home, a multi-floored club with mirrors everywhere and couches lining the sides and the back to give people a chance to get off their feet for a moment now and then. The music at near eardrum-shattering levels kept time with the light show, pounding out a house remix of a popular song Paul vaguely recognized.

He didn’t stop to dwell much on it though—as Ivan had cheerfully predicted would happen, his presence here had been enough to attract the attention of several pretty girls (his friend didn’t mind, and had roped one off for himself), and he had only just finished dancing with one now before she rather breathlessly asked if they could go get a drink from the bar here.

“So you’re…getting a degree in music then? Or is it teaching?” The girl, who had introduced herself as Jane, asked over the loud music.

“It’s both,” Paul confirmed. “I sort of, uh, reached a compromise with my dad—he fancies me being a teacher.”

“But is that what you really want to do?”

“…I’m not sure what I want to do,” Paul admitted aloud, surprised by his faint showing of candid honesty with this relative stranger. “I _do_ love music, and it’s a start, y’know?”

Jane was cute, and rather easy to talk to as they waited for the crowd around the bar to clear. The counter behind it was lined with just about every kind of booze one could think of, some of them served in glasses that flashed with more—colorless—lights. The guy who finally greeted them to ask for their drinks couldn’t have been much older than them, but a sizable grey streak stood out in his dark hair, and he held the toothpick in his mouth like it was a cigarette instead, giving him something of a tougher air.

“Aye, what’ll it be, then?”

Clutching their drinks, Paul and Jane turned to make their way past the bar and the dance floor, seeking out somewhere a little quieter, a little more intimate. His head was already starting to feel a little light—and he didn’t think it was just because of the alcohol.

No more than ten minutes after they had departed, a more familiar figure to one of the bartenders arrived on the scene.

“Ringo!” John greeted him with open exuberance, leaning across the counter with a grin. “Don’t say you missed me too much now.”

“Oh, you know me, John…I was pining away every day.” The barkeep, Ringo (always so called because of the numerous rings he liked to wear on his fingers and in his ears), returned the smile, propping his arms up on the counter. “Did you have a nice holiday?”

“It was all right…bit boring, really,” John mock-sighed. “But with term about to start, it’s really all downhill from here.”

“Was never much of an academic myself,” Ringo said, reaching out to give John a friendly clasp to the shoulder. “Ah, buck up—you like playing the tortured poet type, yeah? How about I get you something to drink—the usual?”

“Nah, I’m good, if it’s all the same to you. What I was actually wondering is if…you had maybe seen Dean Clark around anywhere tonight?”

The tone of his voice was too casual to suggest this was anything actually as such, and John didn’t miss how something in Ringo’s easy expression shifted for half a moment. “He’s, um…I think he’s around. Word on the street is he’s got something new too.”

At this, John notably perked up. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ringo said, in a mocking tone of great, deep mysticism. “Says it’ll really blow your mind, open up your third eye and all—you’ll be seeing things you didn’t know existed, son.”

“You’re just taking the mickey out of me, aren’t you?”

“Maybe I am. But John, listen to me—” Ringo’s voice had lowered so much by now, it was hard to hear him over the thumping music, and John had to lean in a little more. “Be careful who and what you’re fucking around with, all right? If you’re gonna be doing that shit, be smart about it.”

“Oh, come off it…you’re starting to sound like me aunt,” John complained, and shifted himself away from the counter. “Relax—I know what I’m doing.”

They said you could almost see colors sometimes, when you popped the pills. See the other side. That alone might have made it all worth it, provided they could work. That they could make a miracle.

***

Paul wasn’t exactly sure just how much time had gone past—but it was past midnight when he bothered to check his phone again. It was easy for the night to speed past in a blur, what with the dancing and the drinks and the very pleasant company that he had found. As it transpired, Jane was about to start her first year at school too, aiming to concentrate in the performing arts.

“Well, I’ll have to come see you in one of your plays sometime, then.”

Jane smiled at that, her knee amicably brushing against his as they sat on one of the leather sofas. “I would like that a lot. I mean, assuming I even get a decent role—”

“I’m sure that you will,” He told her with absolute confidence, and he might have asked her a little more, but she suddenly fished her phone out of her pocket to check the message on the screen there and gave a little frown.

“Oh…it’s my friend, Nora. She’s outside with my flatmate, she says she’s gotten sick—”

“Oh.” At this, Paul couldn’t help but give a small frown. “Well, I guess—”

“I’m sorry, but…I really ought to go see if she’s OK. Maybe take her home.” Jane looked genuinely regretful to be cutting things off now, but she was already getting to her feet, texting a reply back to her friend.

It was hard not to feel a little disappointed, but Paul couldn’t begrudge her aiming to help a friend out. Instead of dismissing it, he got to his feet too, flashing Jane a quick smile. “’s all right—stuff happens, and I hope she starts feeling better. Can I…at least get your number though?”

Jane was happy to swap numbers with him, and he decided to do the gentleman-y sort of thing and at least see her out to the entrance of the club. It was good to go outside for a few moments anyway, duck out into the cooler night and enjoy a few gulps of fresh air that wasn’t bogged down by body spray and sweat. Further down the road, a couple of girls were huddled around one who was bent over, hands on her knees, clearly about to be sick—and Jane bid him goodbye before she hurried over to join them.

He thought about going after her to see if he could help, but decided it would seem too weird if someone she had really only just met inserted himself in such a thing. Paul turned to go back inside instead, but was cut off when a small stream of people exited the club at the same time. One or two of the blokes in the group actually smacked into him, and there was a brief exchange of swear words as the other lot stumbled off into the night…they were being extremely loud, no doubt completely drunk by this point.

Paul headed back into the heart of the action, already thinking about trying to find Ivan or possibly George if he had made good on his word and shown up—but he had to halt in his tracks on the way to the dance floor, because something there was definitely _mad._

It took him a moment to place what it was—but after squinting into the throng of dancing bodies for a beat or two, it finally hit him. Where once the scene had been awash with the usual black, white, and greys that made up the world, something had _changed_ now. There was something else, another shade that flickered on and off with certain lights above, cutting through the washed-out tones around it like a bolt of lightning. He couldn’t name what it was—of course not—but there it was all the same.

At first, he thought he might be losing his mind, that something had gone horribly wrong. Paul could only remain rooted to the spot, staring in transfixed awe at the flashing bolt he was seeing, something so starkly new and exciting and _beautiful._ It was the same thing each time, only one shade, but the significance of it stood out clearly in his mind—

Color. He was seeing color.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooray for the second part--the next part will unfortunately be a bit of a longer time coming. many thanks to all who left kudos, comments, or just read the first part!
> 
> recommended listening is the song linked just below. peter bradley adams has some gorgeous work, and that song is one of my absolute favorites that kept me company while writing this.

_"I know I don't know you, but there's somewhere I've seen you before"_

_—_ [Peter Bradley Adams, "Between Us"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WUL_yq-HNLw)

* * *

“So…you definitely think this happened at Prism, yeah? Sure someone hadn’t just spiked your drink?”

“It would have worn off by now, wouldn’t it?” Paul demanded, casting George a look—he just gave a shrug of his slim shoulders.

“I dunno—just trying to exhaust all the possibilities, right.”

“’Exhaust’ is the right word for it,” Paul groaned, looking glumly at everything he had spread out in front of him on the table at the café. Much of it was schoolwork, with term now a full week underway, but he also had a notebook open and full of scribbled musings—and paper-clipped to one side of it was a chart of sorts. He had felt like an idiot printing out a near-entirely colorless color wheel, but he had to _know…_ and there it was, standing out in bright, sharp contrast with the other varying shades of grey on the paper.

 _Red._ He saw it everywhere now, his eyes eagerly scanning every venue he entered, every sign along the streets he walked. Buses were red, coats were red, shoes, purses, bricks in the sidewalk, flowers in the garden—it was there. It had always been there. And Paul felt like something in his mind had been unlocked, something had changed, and with just this one dizzying revelation, he knew that he needed more.

It was slow this afternoon at the café, so George had taken up residence in the seat across from Paul. He had been interested in the story from the beginning, in learning about this inexplicable change, and he frowned now as he rolled a pencil between his fingers.

“I mean…I’ve _heard_ of stuff like this. Something happens to a person and then it all just explodes. Just this…whole world opens up.”

“It’s not the whole world,” Paul was quick to point out. “Just…this one part of it, I guess. I can’t understand _why.”_

George tapped the pencil against the table, clearly deep in contemplative thought. “Maybe…well, I dunno, it’s stupid—”

“I’m open to any ideas, stupid or no,” Paul told him, rubbing at his temples—in truth, he was almost starting to feel annoyed about the whole thing. Why would _one_ color only appear to him, and why now?

George was silent for a moment, then pressed on. “Like I said, I’ve heard of this before…my sister, uh, her best friend in primary school met a bloke at a party and just like that—she could see it all. The colors, I mean. When my brother first started going out his wife, it was the same kind of thing. So…maybe it’s dumb, but maybe it’s certain _people—“_

Leaning back in his seat, Paul considered the idea. Now that he reflected on it, he was almost certain he had heard similar gossip to what George was talking about now, a privileged few who had been handed the keys to something grander. And hadn’t, quite a few years ago, his father once said--?

“So maybe that’s something—you met new people the other night, yeah?”

He had—and he’d interacted with one in particular. “Yeah, I did! Maybe Jane’s got something to do with it…maybe I should go and see her again.”

At this, George raised an eyebrow. “As if you needed an excuse?”

Of course, Paul really didn’t—but having a clear sense of direction and feeling like he might finally be on his way to answers here was a relief. He shifted aside one of his binders on the table to grab his phone, searching for Jane’s number. With term just starting, he had only texted her a handful of times and he certainly hadn’t seen her since the night in Prism, but just starting to type out a message had his spirits lifted. George was onto something here.

“What are you asking her?” George inquired, just as Paul hit the send button.

“Just wanted to know if she’d like to grab a cup of coffee sometime soon,” Paul said nonchalantly, resting one foot over the opposite knee. “It’s hardly a big deal, is it?”

“Uh, maybe it _could_ be—I mean, if we’re right about this whole thing.”

That had to be the only answer. It was driving Paul to distraction, this limited preview of another world besides this one of shadows, and the thought of experiencing more of it made his stomach flip-flop with anticipation.

Jane responded with a couple minutes, her message short and sweet. _Would love to! How does tomorrow sound?_

“There,” Paul told George as his thumbs tapped over the screen, typing out a suggestion for a meeting time and place. “So that’s all sorted out, then.”

“Well…good luck,” George told him sincerely. “Let me know how it goes then—and if anything changes. I can’t…imagine what it’s like.”

He sounded wistful for a second, a touch unlike the usual blunt self that Paul had come to know, so much that he looked up in surprise from his phone for a moment. George didn’t meet his gaze, but kept fiddling with the pencil in a subconscious sort of fidgeting gesture, and Paul could only say the one thing on his mind.

“Neither can I yet…really. And I don’t have the whole picture yet. But I’m hoping.”

And so he spent the next day in a state of general agitation, thinking ahead to the date (if you could call it that) with Jane they had planned for that evening, running the different scenarios he could see coming through his head. Was she experiencing the same thing too? Was Jane, unaccountably, starting to see color for the first time, the very first time? And if she really was, would she have told him before this, sent him a message herself?

Torturing himself with questions wouldn’t do him any good, but it was impossible not to run them through his head again and again. He didn’t even tell Ivan where he was going when he left the flat that evening—he didn’t want to have come and explain any disappointment, for his friend to see his crumpled face.

He met Jane at a little restaurant called The Bell, doing his best to seem casual as he walked into the cheerily-lit interior of the building, feeling as jumpy as some preteen about to go on his first date. It was hardly a big _deal._

 _Get it together,_ He mentally scolded himself as he looked around the restaurant for Jane, and then spotted her out of the corner of his eye—she waved him over with a bright smile.

It wasn’t the only thing that was bright. For a moment, Paul stood rooted to the spot, staring right at her…because with his new ability to see a certain shade, her _hair_ stood out like a beacon, a luminous signal flare amidst all the other bleakness. Like a moth to a flame, Paul was drawn over to her, and it took him a moment after he had slowly lowered himself into his seat to realize she was speaking to him.

“It’s nice to see you again! Have a nice first week of term?”

“I, um…yeah. It was all right. How about you?” Distantly, as if viewing himself from another point of view, Paul was aware that he was tripping over his words a little—not much like him at all. But now, it wasn’t because he was so fixated on what was happening with Jane, but rather…what _wasn’t._

Besides the reddish gleam of her hair and the other pieces of the color here, nothing had changed—there was nothing new, nothing else miraculous happening. With the rapid, almost frightening nature that the other incident had occurred, Paul had been expecting something like an explosion of color and light, a door not slowly creaking open but bursting wide, but now it felt more like he had fallen flat on his face, tripped over the threshold on his way in. Jane was chattering away about her first week of classes, but he had heard none of it.

“…and I’m quite liking that one, I think it’ll be fascinating.”

“Er…I’m sure it will be.” Paul did his best to foist a quick smile onto his face, but something in Jane’s own expression seemed to suggest she knew he hadn’t been wholly paying attention. When she spoke again, her tone was a bit more pointed.

“Shall we go ahead and order something then?”

The food was fine, the conversation they managed to fall into about their classes and the families and friends they had back home was pleasant enough, and by the time hours had slipped past, Paul was glad they had made this happen—but it was hard not to feel a hollow twinge of disappointment, as nothing else within his orbit had changed at all. Maybe it was some kind of delayed reaction?

In any case, spending time with Jane couldn’t have been a waste of time in the first place, just by nature of who she was. But it seemed like Jane herself felt a little differently, for when they paid the tab and headed out into the gathering night, her voice still sounded a little stilted.

“Well…I liked that, Paul. Thank you for tonight.” She was fiddling with her purse strap, averting her eyes from him, and the sight of it troubled Paul.

“You’re welcome. What d’you say we do it again sometime, huh?”

Jane lifted her eyebrows in plain surprise, gaze now fixed back on him. “You’re…you’re serious?”

Taken aback, Paul blinked at her, rubbing the back of his head. “Um…pretty sure, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, it’s just…for a little bit back there—you seemed almost _disappointed_ about something. I hope it wasn’t…”

Her voice trailed off then, but Paul understood her meaning, and his heart sunk at the thought of his bewildered frustration plain on his face for Jane to see. He shook his head then, moving his hand to lightly rest it on her arm. “Oh, no—that was something else, Jane, something…something stupid. Nothing to do with you.”

And perhaps neither was the newfound gleam in her hair, a shocking flare now under the glow of a nearby streetlight. Nothing to do with her, after all.

But her relieved smile then was all for him, and the grin he returned was all for her—and quietly, the rest of it all slipped by the wayside for the time being. It would come back to trouble Paul later, lying awake in bed and watching red streaks on the wall from the lights of vehicles outside passing by, but the sweetness of Jane’s smile seemed worth it.

Maybe, after all, she wasn’t the answer—but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t his choice. Or maybe, like Jim would stress if he were here now, this sort of thing simply needed time. Anything worth having took work.

* * *

 

The first time John set foot outside after the night in Prism, he had undergone his closest experience yet to a heart attack—even with years of recreational drugs behind him. When he woke up that morning, his head was still throbbing from the night before, his tongue feeling like a leaden but furred object in his mouth, and what he desperately needed was a glass of water and some painkillers…only he hadn’t found any in the flat at all. What was more, they were out of cereal, and his hungover self just couldn’t contemplate the idea of trying to actually _make_ himself anything to eat.

So, swearing under his breath, John had managed to get dressed and finger-comb his hair before he stepped outside, and it was then and only then that he noticed anything was amiss—his glasses-free eyes had been too tired and blurry to bring anything to attention earlier. Out on the street, it was something different, too great to ignore, and John actually sucked in his breath so sharply it hurt.

Not that he noticed that. Not that he noticed anything but the screaming, blinding field of _color_ stretched out before him on the opposite side of the road. It was in the grass, up in the trees, and it was this that tipped him off to what he had only heard about in books and songs before.

_Green._

It was an eye-watering, jaw-dropping miracle. He barely remembered to check for any cars coming down the road before he crossed over it, nearly stumbling into the grassy area like a drunk. John’s eyes, so used to washed-out greys and blacks, seemed to be filling up with how _overwhelming_ it was, how stunning, how beautiful.

He wanted to roll in it, wallow in it, somehow swallow it whole—his knees were so wobbly, John didn’t last very long before he was tipping over into the grass, not even bothering to try and roll onto his back at first. The sweet, pungent smell of the earth and the grass filled his nose, but that by itself was nothing new…but what came with it was. He laced his fingers in it, as if he could clutch the color itself and never let it go.

“There you are,” John couldn’t help but laugh aloud, voice hoarse with delight. “I’ve been waiting me whole life.”

He finally rolled over onto his back, gazing up at the leaves in the tree just above him—it had all been here all along, hadn’t it? Just waiting for him. John laughed again, his joy bubbling in his chest, and a man jogging past on the park’s path shot him a scandalized look. He twisted his head around to grin at the innocent bystander.

“Lovely day, innit?”

The man looked mortified and he picked up his pace, giving John a clear berth and leaving him free to chortle to himself, feeling heartily amused with that and just about everything else.

Squinting up at the sky past the leaves, something else struck him then…it remained resolutely grey. So had the tracksuit of the man who had just ran past, and craning his head around, it was obvious to see that they weren’t the only things. Only the grass, the leaves, and a nearby recycling bin—well, anything that was green, it seemed. That had been opened up to him, but there clearly had been a line drawn as well. This nagged at him for a moment, but he refused to let it completely spoil what _had_ been given to him. Not just yet.

He only just remembered to stop by the local Tesco and buy the groceries he had been looking for, taking it as a chance to see more of this world he had uncovered. Even the new bits of color in the packages of gum at the check-out line somehow seemed breathtaking, were absolutely enchanting in their own right. By the time he made it back to the flat, he was almost singing.

Stuart was up and around by now, putting something back in the refrigerator when he straightened up as John came crashing inside. He looked startled for a second, then warily amused as he appraised him. “…what’s gotten into you, then?”

“You were wrong, Stu.” It was the first thing that came to John’s mind and so the first thing that he blurted out. “You…you don’t need some kind of special person to get it. To see it.”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Stu demanded wildly as John tossed the grocery bag down on the kitchen counter. In the next moment, his tone was more suspicious as he asked, “Are you high? Oh god, that’s it, isn’t it—”

“Not anymore,” John announced, turning to face him. “But last night…I…” He could remember the empty hallway in the back end of the night club, of the other desperate souls like him crowded around, sometimes washing back their pills with a slug of alcohol. John had borrowed a glass from a girl nearby, her lipstick had smeared the side of the container, but he had hardly cared about that—what mattered was what was cupped in his hand, and the rush that came afterwards.

And it had _worked._ What he had stumbled outside to see was definitive proof that it had, perhaps not entirely—but it was a start. He already craved more, the urge coursing through his veins.

“I got this pill, see, this drug—”

Now Stu’s stricken face melded into one of disapproving concern. “Oh, John, not another bloody drug—you were talking about getting clean!”

“Yeah, so what if I was?” John asked defensively. “Listen, Stu, it doesn’t matter, all right? What _does_ is that I just went outside and I saw… _color._ I saw the color green. It’s all out there, it’s all around us.”

To his immense, sick sense of satisfaction, Stu looked even more blown away than he had before, completely at a loss for words for a moment. “You…you did? But…how is that possible?”

“Looks like they’ve find a way around your working theory, eh?” John inquired. “There’s nothing a little cash won’t get you these days, it seems. Even this.”

He turned then, looking towards the cramped living room and the canvases that lined it—now, he could see certain elements of it, the color Stuart used in some of them. It remained a defiant splash of something greater in the sea of grey that John was still otherwise lost in, but he scrabbled to hold onto the surge of awe and confidence that had risen up in him with the morning’s events.

He would find a way to the rest of it. He had to.

After a few heartbeats of flat silence, Stuart exhaled roughly, puffing out his cheeks before he spoke again. “Well. If you aren’t too busy going round the twist today, you might remember that we scheduled a band rehearsal. We’ve got to practice before that festival next weekend.”

For once, the band and the music had drifted far into the back of John’s mind, somewhere on another plane, but they returned to him now with Stu’s perfectly accurate words. What had been his first love, after all? No matter how much he was nearly twitching now, he couldn’t ignore the most constant source of joy in his life, and today was already shaping up to be one full of possibility.

“You’re only right when you’re right, Stu—but you know something? We’ll have even your playing up and running by next Friday…it’s a time of bleeding miracles.”

***

For as much as Paul’s world had changed by a dramatic, defiant shift, the rest of it remained surprisingly the same. He still went to all his classes, still called his dad on Friday nights—Jim had proven to be nearly hopeless at texting, and Mikey sure wouldn’t be bothered to teach him. He thought about telling his father about the new rift that had opened in his life, but held his tongue on the grounds that he had no idea what to say, or how to bring it up. What could possibly be done about it?

Jim was just glad to know that term had gotten off to a good start, and eager to hear more news of how Paul’s musical pursuits were coming along. “You’ve got such a gift, son, I’d hate to see it go to waste—but you’re sticking with the piano, aren’t you?”

“Of course, Dad, yeah. Ivan’s met this guy in one of his classes, says he might be interested in adding some new people to his band—that would be something, wouldn’t it?”

“It sounds great, as long as it doesn’t take you away from your studies too much. You know that’s the most important thing, Paul.”

“Yeah, I…I know. Don’t worry.”

The urge to do well, to succeed, had never once left him. But besides new friends, university was coming with a new set of distractions, and one of them included Ivan’s successful discovery of a bloke who might be looking for some members in his so-called indie rock band. They had a course together, him and this John Lennon, and it sounded like he was interested in both a keyboardist and a bass player.

“So they’re playing at that music fest-thing that’s happening next week, you know that one with all the local bands? So I figure even if they totally suck, we’ll have potential back-up right there on the scene to check out.”

Paul was sitting with his knees tucked up to his chest, notebook open on his legs as he jotted down notes for his upcoming assignment. “Sounds good, Ivy—I’ll be bringing Jane along, if you don’t mind.”

“Oho, is that it? Things are getting serious then, huh?”

He looked up from his notebook, idling chewing on the end of his pen. “I dunno…maybe not _that_ serious. But I like her.”

“I guess that’s all that really matters then. But you’ve seemed a little…distracted since you met her, head all up in the clouds, I reckon.”

Ivan grinned, which Paul managed to return albeit somewhat weakly. He certainly wasn’t looking to let things with Jane fizzle out just yet, and she had agreed to coming along to the big event next weekend. The music would be just what he needed, that much he was sure of. It was still the best cure he knew of, for anything ailing him.

The weekend of the outdoor festival ushered in surprisingly fine weather, the sun peeking through a light, fleecy blanket of clouds. A massive amount of the student body had come out for the event, taking up a good chunk of the one field. A large stage had been set up front, where a rotation of bands was cycling throughout the day. All proceeds, as Paul understood it, would be going to the respective bands and other contributors, all with the interest of supporting local music.

By the time their little group, consisting of Paul and Jane and Ivan’s sort-of date, Lucy, arrived on the scene, that music was already well underway. People in the crowd were milling around, clutching bottles of beer, smoking, and talking loudly to one another over the noise. Even with all the din, Paul could still hear the sound from the band, an electrifying but bluesy sort of vibe that his well-trained musical ear could pick up on as they covered a song by The Black Keys. The singer in particular was good, voice more nasally and acidic but alluring enough, the kind you’d want from a front man.

“C’mon, let’s try and get closer,” He suggested to the others, and Ivan nodded.

“Oh yeah—but we can speak to John later too, you’ll see.”

“Is that him singing now?”

“Yeah, that’s him—good, isn’t he?”

Paul wouldn’t be able to say for sure until he had actually seen him in action, but he couldn’t deny that he liked what he heard—and if Ivan thought he might be a good fit for this band, well, he currently had a guitar that was in need of a home for its sound. Already, his foot wanted to tap to the music he was hearing, and that was a positive sign.

Jane stuck close to him as they budged their way through the crowd, but Paul knew that even if they got separated, he’d be able to pick her out in a thrice thanks to the signal fire that was her hair to him now. They edged their way closer to the makeshift stage that had been set up, Paul looking back over his shoulder to make sure Ivan and Lucy were still with them.

“That’s John,” Ivan jerked his chin, nodding towards the stage, and Paul turned his head once more to look over and up, following the voice that was echoing around all of them.

He had one, maybe two, seconds where he got a decent look at a guy in ripped jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt, hair decidedly mussed, glasses beginning to slip down a sharp nose as he played and sang, as his eyes swiveled over the crowd and just happened to land on Paul for a moment—and then the entire world erupted.

One minute, everything looked how it had always been to him (though now with the addition of the color red), and the next, an immense ripple seemed to quake through the air as the cosmos shifted, as _all of it_ changed. As if some heavy grey curtain was being pulled by a colossal hand, the colors of the world exploded into place, bursting into Paul’s vision like fireworks.

Here, everywhere—the brown of someone’s hair, the purple of a shirt, the _blue_ in the sky—Paul actually cried aloud at the overstimulation, at how much it all was as his eyes instinctively began to water, as he shielded them desperately. Only those closest to him could possibly hear him, and Jane turned to him in concern. “Paul?”

But something else was happening too—even over the ringing beginning in his ears, Paul could pick up on how the singing from the band had come to an abrupt halt, how one of the guitars had jolted to a screeching stop. He didn’t lower his hand, but up on stage, the lead singer was staring out into the universe that had cracked open for him at the exact same moment in time.

John’s mouth had gone dry, the words he was singing sizzling up in his throat, guitar limp in his hands as he began to tremble, as everything, absolutely everything, was forgotten. The only thing that mattered was what was unfurling right before his stunned, disbelieving eyes, who were beginning to ache, who could not comprehend what they were seeing now.

 _Look again,_ something seemed to tell him. _It’s real. It’s happening._

From behind him, dimly, as if from the other end of a long tunnel, he could hear Stu’s voice echoing. “John? John! What the fuck are you doing?”

Shotton was improvising, singing his backing vocals as best as he could and shooting John edgy, panicked looks as the others tried to fumble through their set—but it was absolutely no good. Everyone could tell that the lead singer had mysteriously dropped out, that things had suddenly came to a startling halt, and murmurs were already spreading through the crowd like wildfire.

John was staring off into space like he was on some kind of bad trip, and Stu would later confess to him that he thought something had gone horribly wrong with the drugs he was so into. But it wasn’t that, and by the time Stuart’s whispered pleas from behind him finally caught his attention, it was far too late. The crowd was starting to get noisier now, voicing their displeasure and confusion, but John’s eyes had shifted, had moved from the middle distance to fix downward, to land on one of the many people who was now staring up at him, but the only one who wore the exact same expression as his own on his face.

And right away, as if some cosmic thread was tied between them and tightened just then, John knew.

He only got a quick glance of enormous brown _(brown)_ eyes, a full mouth currently trembling a little as he lowered his hand, as he stared at John too with a face blanched of all other color—and then he turned, and he began pushing his way through the gathered throng, actually _leaving_ the scene. Despite himself, John found his voice again, the panicked sound leaving him without a second thought.

“Wait!”

“John!” Shotton barked from next to him, but Pete’s drums had sputtered to a halt behind them, the crowd was beginning to jeer at the interruption—and still, John might have been able to save it. He might have been able to put on his most charming grin and make some kind of witty remark, do something to bring them back into the fold and get things going again, but his head was spinning too much, his eyes hurt far too much, and he knew that he couldn’t let that young man he had seen slip away.

“I’m sorry, lads,” He turned to the others, staring utterly flabbergasted at him as he carefully removed his guitar and thrust it into Stuart’s grip. “I’ll make it up to you all later, yeah? I’ve gotta…I’ve gotta go.”

“John!” But not even Stu’s protest could keep John in place now, as he whirled around to face the audience.

“Go easy on ‘em, ladies and gents—all complaints can go to the upper management, who’ll refund you for your troubles.”

And with that, he leapt down from the stage, and began to fight his way through the crowd. Few people were happy about this, of course, but John didn’t care about any of that—what mattered was getting out of here, was finding the one other person he knew was going through the same thing as surely as he knew the sun would rise tomorrow.

The gathered crowd had packed the courtyard and the pavement beyond, people standing in line at one of the food carts, climbing around on the stone wall nearby, just in general getting in the way—and John’s eyes hurt so damn much, it was impossible to pick out any one person in all this mess.

He looked wildly around, his eyes starting to water from all the new sensations, from too much stimulation, and that made it even more impossible to look for his query. John could only poke around for a bit longer before he had to swear aloud, kicking at the curb. He had been there, right _there,_ only to vanish like smoke in the wind…

And his bandmates might actually kill him. Somehow, the troubling thought seemed to fade into dull insignificance in the back of his mind, compared to what else he was facing right now.

Everything had changed. He couldn’t simply let this go.

* * *

 

The rest of the weekend after the ill-ended music fest passed by in something of a blur—in more than one way. Rightfully so, the other members of the Quarry Men were far from pleased with their so-called leader, and the shouting match that erupted back at the flat was enough to draw the ire of the closest neighbors. John cursed them out, told them he had _said_ he was sorry and he meant it, but they needed to fucking drop the subject. Even Stu, peacemaker though he tried to be, could hardly look him in the eyes afterwards, when the others had left with very little resolved.

John felt guilty, but not enough yet to go crawling on his belly to any of them with more apologies. He couldn’t explain what had happened to anyone except maybe Stuart, but for once, something compelled him not to share anything with him. This was something to be worked through on his own, and what was more, he had the distinct impression that something had gone awry.

Oh, he could see colors now—there was no doubt about that. But they seemed horribly distorted somehow, unfocused blurs that never settled completely into place. Or they were there, but they were muted, as if looked at through a foggy windowpane. It was almost as awful as being in the world of black and white had been, this sense that something here still wasn’t right.

Overwhelmed, angry at himself, and feeling immensely lost, John spent most of the weekend shut up in his room and smoking, ignoring the reading he had due for class and shooting down Cynthia’s gentle offer to go grab something to eat. He didn’t want to do much but stew in his own bad feelings and get high, shutting his eyes to the now confusing and hectic world that lay just beyond them.

Come Monday, he honestly debated on skiving off class, but he was also sick by then of being cooped up. Mimi had called him last night and he had managed to speak to her, but just the jarring sound of her familiar voice was enough to spur him into making something more of an effort. He didn’t see Stuart when he left, but those paintings residing in the living room were now visible in all of their colorful beauty—somewhat. It wasn’t put right yet.

His first class of the morning, a lecture on early Greek plays and dramas, sped past as he drew sketches in the margin of his notebook, even worse than ever at focusing—at least when it came to the actual lesson. John might not have even heard the usual shuffling sounds and the scraping back of chairs when the class was dismissed and everyone began packing up to leave, had he not caught sound of a loud, attention-seeking cough from just above him.

John looked up and into the face of Ivan Vaughan, who looked distinctly uncomfortable but still surged ahead. “Er…John? I’m sorry I didn’t meet you last Friday like I said we would.”

“It’s no trouble,” John assured him, and truthfully, with everything that had happened, he had completely forgotten about the meeting with Ivan and his friend they had scheduled. “It happens, you know?”

“You lot sounded good—really good. But my flatmate, Paul, he came over all funny…I dunno what got into him. He took off, left early and all, but then I guess you did too, huh?”

His voice was politely inquisitive, though John could sense the cutting implication of his own dramatic departure, exit stage front—but his brain had seized onto a different part of Ivan’s words. “Your friend…Paul? When did he leave, exactly?”

“Not long after we got there,” Ivan said glumly. “We had just wandered up to get a better look at your band and all, but then he booked it—it was sorta mad.”

But John’s pulse was beginning to race, the pen still clutched in one hand starting to tremble. The elusive Paul McCartney he had been supposed to meet with Ivan…the mysterious person he had seen in the crowd at the gig, whose gaze he had met for half of one wild second and changed the world—were they one and the same person? If he had just stuck with the set and saw Ivan later, as had been arranged, would things have fallen into place then?

His mouth must have been hanging open a little, because Ivan looked mildly concerned. “But, er…that’s behind us now, isn’t it? D’you think there’s a chance we could reschedule or something?”

“Yes,” John blurted out instantly, automatically, so quick that Ivan looked taken aback. “I mean…yeah.”

“Great! Well, I’m about to go meet Paul to grab lunch anyway, d’you want to come with? We can all talk then.”

“I…yeah. That sounds good.” ‘Good’ was a loose word, already, John’s palms seemed to be sweating a little more as he scooped his messenger back up to swing over his shoulder and followed Ivan. It was probably nothing, he tried to tell himself. He was probably getting all worked up for no reason.

But he still found himself holding his breath as they made their way out of the building and to the courtyard that was just outside, crawling with students now as it often was between classes. John was reminded of that other day, the same day where all this had started for him, and Ivan was walking towards a figure seated on a bench with a notebook out, scribbling something down in it with his left hand—

“Paul, this here is John. You know, we were supposed to see him the other day, but—”

Ivan was talking, but it somehow couldn’t have mattered less—because the moment John made eye contact with Paul again, the world had shifted once more. The blurry, muted colors all around him didn’t fade away, what they did was come into a sharp, glorious focus, dust wiped clean from a mirror. But in the reflection of that mirror, instead of seeing his own face, John saw someone else looking back at him.

 _But it’s **you.**_ And that made all the difference in the world.

“…hi. ‘m Paul McCartney,” Paul said, his voice ragged, catching in his throat—for a moment, his hand shifted like he was aiming to reach out and shake John’s, but he thought better of it. His wide eyes were searching, scanning John with something like desperation and wonder too, and he could see the pink tip of his tongue poke out to wet his lip in an undoubtedly nervous gesture.

Unlike John’s sloppy, thrown-together look, everything about Paul’s appearance hinted that it had been meticulously planned. The halfway-buttoned cardigan over khaki trousers was a bit much, but the way the sleeves were rolled up exposed surprisingly shapely arms, and his left hand that was smudged with ink from pressing it to the paper. It was a small hint of messiness, but it certainly had more than a little to do with the broad grin that couldn’t help but break across John’s face.

“…John Lennon.” And John was the one who reached his hand out for a shake, who offered the gesture, and was nearly left shaking in his boots when Paul took it. They clasped hands and shook, holding onto it longer than was custom, but as long as John could keep looking at him and the world around him, he thought he would be content.

Everything, from the pink of his lips and the flush in his cheeks to the brown hair, the blue in his cardigan, all of it—it was new. How could John do anything but want to become lost in it?

Ivan seemed to sense, even just a little, that something had inexplicably changed here, watching the two of them with a slight furrow between his brows. “Paul’s…quite a good guitar player,” He offered, somewhat lamely. “Can play the piano too.”

“Oh, really?” John raised his eyebrows, and for the first time, was treated to the sight of Paul’s almost challenging little smile.

“I’m not bad, at that.”

“Yeah? Might have to see later if you can put your money where your mouth is.”

“Absolutely!” Ivan chimed in, but he was already turning away from the other two. “But let’s get something to eat first, huh? I’m starving over here.”

Paul looked like he had half a mind to object, but there was no simple way to excuse himself—they headed down the street for lunch with Ivan, grabbing sandwiches from a shop and sitting outside to eat them. The weather had been kind enough to grant them one of those mild, sunny days in an otherwise bleak London autumn, but Paul couldn’t wholly relax and allow himself to enjoy it. Not now, when it seemed like John’s eyes never left him.

Ivan had to duck out early, heading to another class he had that afternoon, but he and John swapped numbers for further communication about getting together. In any case, what was soon clear was that without the absence of both a third wheel and a buffer, the other two were left alone together—and it already felt like somehow, there were so many unspoken words between them.

“So,” John began, and then, for once, came up short with just what any of those words were.

Paul lifted his chin, eyes searching John’s face. “So.”

More to diffuse the tension than anything else, John dug out a cigarette and the lighter to go with it, flicking it on so the flame sprung to life. Both of their eyes were drawn to the orange spark that flared up, that wild burst of light, and John looked up with a grin when he had the cigarette properly lit.

“’mazing, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been seeing red for about a week now,” Paul admitted. “But that’s…a little new. I mean, the whole thing is, really, but you…you know what’s like, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do,” John agreed quietly, and he took a seat near—but not very close—to Paul along the stone border by a little park. “Only I was seeing green the whole week instead.”

“I hope you mean that literally,” Paul said with the beginnings of a smile, both of them knowing the double meaning in the expression—but his eyes then swept over the lawn, the trees lining the street nearby, and his expression softened a little. “I like green. It’s…I dunno. Alive.”

John exhaled a plume of smoke, electing to be frank. “I like all of it. My roommate is a bloody artist, he’s been in the know for a while now—you can’t imagine how mad it’s driven me.”

He was rewarded with the sharp burst of short laughter from Paul, though he turned his head as if to stifle it. The subject had been a source of pain and bitterness on John’s part these past few months, but even he had to crank a small smile at the utter ridiculous of the situation. And now…it had been remedied.

“So your roommate’s an artist…I assume you’re not?”

“Nah. Me, I get by studying literature.”

“Oh? D’you want to be a teacher then?”

“That wouldn’t go over well,” John admitted ruefully. “Don’t think I have the stomach for it. But Ivan said that’s what you’re up to yourself.”

It lasted for hardly a second, but John didn’t miss the look that passed over Paul’s face then. “Yeah, I…it’s good enough for me. The music is the important part of it, I don’t mind what I’m doing otherwise.”

“Well, don’t sound so enthused,” John said pointedly, raising his eyebrows, but Paul shook his head.

“But I mean it. You know, the whole world…before all this—it was like this big blank. Just empty, like. And music was—still is—the closest thing I could get to…to really feeling something different. To making something that was…beautiful. I know, it probably sounds stupid—”

“No,” John insisted, and in fact, something in his throat felt like it had closed up a little. “No, that doesn’t sound stupid at all.”

For a few moments, they sat in silence, both of them basking in the new experience that had been opened up to them. A car advertising a business painted in swirls of psychedelic colors drove past, and both of them both pointed to it at the same time with an audible sound of delight.

“Absolutely barking,” John declared, but around something of a laugh—in truth, not since the day he saw green for the first time did he think he had ever seen anything so wonderful.

“There’s a whole world out there like that,” Paul responded, eyes bright as he looked out to the bustling street scene just beyond them. “It’s all different now.”

John let the moment linger for a bit longer before he tapped some of the ashes in the cigarette out. “So…I hope this doesn’t keep you from coming out to play with the band still. We’re rehearsing again this Wednesday, down in one of the music studios—I mean, if you think you’re good enough.”

It was a subtle challenge, a bit of testing the waters, and Paul rose to the occasion with a smirk of his own. “Oh, I know I’m good enough.”

At this, John’s mouth fell open in a halfway shocked, halfway amused expression, and he snorted. “Really? Why don’t we find out?”

“I think…sometime, yeah.”

“Just sometime?”

“Only Wednesday’s no good, I’ve got…something else going on.”

“Oh, it can’t be _that_ important,” John probed the subject with some more pointed teasing, but when Paul remained quiet, he cottoned onto something. “Hold on…it’s a girl, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.” But the slight pink—a beautiful color, really—that had risen in his cheeks was a dead giveaway. “Only I promised, y’know? And this is one I don’t want to lose right now, not only after I just met her.”

He flushed more at that, guiltily averting his eyes away from John. “Sorry, I—I don’t mean to start sharing my whole life story, god—”

“No, it’s all right,” John assured him quickly, and an immense part of him had to stamp down the urge to reach out and gently cup Paul’s face, turn that gaze back onto him. “I, er…I get what that’s like. I do.”

“Besides, Ivan’s got your number now,” Paul pointed out, looking back towards John as he swept some of his hair, tousled by an errant breeze, back into place. “So he can give it to me, and we’ll…we’ll work something out.”

Something of a sneaking sense of alarm was beginning to rise up in John, as Paul’s tone certainly seemed to indicate like he was looking for a way out of this conversation, and when he reached for the bag sitting next to him, those suspicions were confirmed.

“I’m sorry, but I should probably get going too—I’ve got stuff going on this afternoon.”

“You’re gonna leave, just like that?” The question flew from John’s lips, aching with his stupid wounded pride, and he wished he could take them back in the next moment as Paul looked genuinely surprised. But he couldn’t just up and go—not after what had just happened to them, didn’t he know what this could _mean?_

“No, I…don’t mean to be rude and all, but I’m really not…it’s not like I was counting on all _this_ today.” Paul indicated John himself and the sweep of the world around him, the meaning clear.

“So what? Do you wanna just act like it didn’t happen at all?”

“I can’t very well do that, can I?” In contrast to the heat underlying John’s voice, Paul’s had become a little more clipped as he shouldered his bag. “Look—it really _was_ good to meet you, John. For more than just because of…all that’s new. But I can’t…I can’t do this right now.”

John couldn’t help but start to retort, mouth opening but words dying in his throat, and a gaggle of students crossing the quad from one building to another overruled all of it with their loud, bright chatter. Paul took the opportunity to squeeze around them, and John’s heart lurched in his chest when the crowd dispersed and he was left alone, left to stare after the retreating figure in blue.

Before he reached the pavement and the street just past it, Paul stopped in his tracks and he looked over his shoulder, just once. He was just in time to see John wrench his gaze away and put out the cigarette he had been smoking, stomping it out with a bit too much aggression. And by the time he looked up again, Paul was already gone, swallowed up by the foot traffic.

All the color was making John’s eyes hurt again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, here we are...thank you to everyone who patiently waited for the third chapter! this was originally meant to be the final one, but it was simply getting too long and covering things i didn't want in one update. the next chapter will be along shortly, within a couple days, and likely a little bit shorter. i'm almost done with it.
> 
> many, many thanks to all those who commented, left a kudo, or even just took the time to read--i'm so glad you liked it!

_"Everything that's broke_  
_Leave it to the breeze_  
_Let the ashes fall_  
_Forget about me"_

 _—_ [James Bay, "Let It Go"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9tIrB3Rg4sw)

* * *

 

Ordinarily, all of this might be something John was actively trying to internalize, feelings he was trying to suppress, but the magnitude of the situation didn’t exactly lend itself to that. It felt more like something was welling up inside, spilling over soon, and so it only made sense to vent to a willing ear—or so he hoped.

“And then he said that he had ‘stuff to do’ and he just…took off! Just like that!”

John snapped his fingers in Ringo’s face for emphasis, causing his friend to scoff and push the offending hand away from him. “Come off it, you’re laying it on too much—I doubt he was _really_ like that.”

“He was,” John muttered, letting his hand drop to the counter with a smack. In the early afternoon before anyone but the workers were at Prism, the night club looked much smaller somehow, the scuffed floors and cracks in the leather seats that much more obvious. The quiet was almost eerie, as was the vast emptiness, but at least the booze was still here—and at least John had a mate here as well. He couldn’t imagine talking to Stuart about this.

“So he just up and left? Honestly?”

“Yeah. I don’t think…I don’t think he wanted anything to do with me, really,” John’s tone grew heavier, and he tapped his fingers restlessly on the bar surface now. Something like shame bubbled up in his chest, and he pointed to the various bottles behind the counter—many of which glittered with new shades he had never seen before. “You’re sure you can’t hit me with something? One pesky little shooter or so, but believe me, I need to get pissed.”

“Have you got the money for it?”

“Oh, _c’mon,_ I’m your friend—”

“I’ll knock off a quid then, but _I’m_ not looking to lose me job.”

“Fuckin’ cheapskate,” John said irritably, but dug out his wallet to produce the bills he needed to pay for something strong. Ringo obligingly moved behind the bar to pour him a shot, and John threw it back in no time, appreciating the strong burn down his throat, even the way it blurred his vision a little, grateful to blame his eyes hurting on something else.

He leaned forward a little over the counter, now staring intently into Ringo’s face. “Your eyes are really _blue,_ did you know that?”

“I couldn’t possibly know that,” Ringo said with something of a sad smile before he changed the subject around. “Look, John…maybe you don’t need to worry about it so much. You met a guy, something happened, that could just be the end of it. You’re good at once-and-done kinds of things, aren’t you?”

That tended to be John’s usual mode of operation, but he shook his head now. “No…this has gotta be something different, don’t it? Something that big can’t just happen and then you _forget_ all about the person who started it. What kind of bloody sense does that make?”

“Don’t be getting all philosophical on me,” Ringo warned him, but John hardly heard him over the itching that was crawling under his skin once more, now sparked to a new life by his feelings of confusion and hopelessness.

“How about any more to drink?”

“How about not?” Ringo suggested, lightly enough but clearly not kidding. “C’mon—let’s go and have a smoke, another substance will just have to do the trick for you, Lennon.”

John didn’t want to smoke a cigarette so much as he ached for something stronger, but he allowed himself to be cajoled outside to bum a smoke. He was reminded of an earlier scene from yesterday, how he and Paul’s eyes had both been drawn to the spark of the lighter, and something in his heart lurched. They had discovered something because of each other.

How could that not mean something?

“I just don’t _understand.”_

“John, if I have to hear you bellyache about this bloke you didn’t get to shag—”

“It’s not about—”

“Oh, so he was hideous, then?”

“No,” John said ruefully, ruffling his hair as he puffed away on his cigarette. “He was gorgeous, all right? Gorgeous.” He had never seen such long, sooty eyelashes on a person before, and he was sincerely glad his introduction to the color pink (that’s what he thought it was, if he remembered right) had been through it blossoming in Paul’s cheeks, in the flush of his lips.

Ringo took a drag of his own cigarette, seemingly lost in thought as they smoked out in the alleyway. “I dunno, John…it’s gotta be overwhelming, doesn’t it? This Paul guy probably just doesn’t know what to think—and you’ve gotta give him time, then.”

“If I ever even see him again,” John said moodily, thinking about Paul’s abrupt departure, but then heaved a long sigh as he flicked some of his ashes away. “But you know what…all right. That’s fine. That’s fair. I’ve got better things to worry about, anyway.”

“I reckon that you do.” Ringo’s voice wasn’t unkind as he looked over at him, but John still bristled a little at the tone.

“What do you know about it?”

“Probably not a lot—I’m not…I haven’t had this incredible thing happen to me, John. Sometimes I think it doesn’t bother me, sometimes I think I’d kill just to know what fucking purple looks like. Just to see a goddamn sunrise. But that’s not the point. The point is that you can’t let this bother you so much that you start acting stupid.”

“Christ, if it’s not Stu lecturing me, it’s you!” John scowled, crushing his cigarette underfoot as he glowered. “I’m not some little kid, you’re not my aunt—but that’s all I’ve got, isn’t it? People who breathe down me neck or people who don’t want me around at all.” Some cases, like Stu, were really some of each—but he couldn’t let himself pick at that old wound just now, not when a new one was here and spouting blood.

“John, don’t say shit like that.” Ringo sounded almost angry, but decidedly concerned, looking at him anxiously. “It’s not true, and I think you know it too—you’re just mad now. Blow off some steam, go for a walk or something, but you need to clear your head. This isn’t the end of the world here.”

“How would you know?” John retorted. “You said it yourself, you don’t know what this is like—and I hope you never do if this is what comes out of it. Maybe some of us are damn well meant to be left in the dark.”

Ringo’s mouth twisted downwards, but anything he might have said besides a half-hearted plea of John’s name was lost in a burst of wind as John turned and stalked off, not looking back once. It felt good to lash out at someone, a satisfying sort of sting, but the more he walked and stewed in his own thoughts, the more guilt he felt that it had been Ringo who had gotten the end of it—which only really further contributed to the vicious cycle.

He needed a fix, and he needed it bad. That was the only way out of this.

By the time he stormed into the flat later, the breath was rattling in his lungs like a chain-smoker at the top of a steep hill. Unfortunately, the place wasn’t empty—Stu was out in the living room, using the most open space that they had to work on a large canvas, dressed in his stained painting clothes. He looked up, startled, as John came in, clearly alarmed by the look on his face.

“Oh, John! I wasn’t…I can go into the studio instead, if you want.”

But John wasn’t looking at him, instead, glancing down at the splashes of color on the canvas that were now becoming familiar to him, after only a day of seeing them all. Stuart was painting a landscape, a mountain chain like one would never find here in the city, and the sight of it sent a bizarre, inexplicable lump rising in John’s throat.

“What was meeting Astrid like?” He blurted out before he could think it over too long, and shock flitted across Stuart’s face.

“W-what…Astrid was like?”

“Meeting her. What changed?”

For months, John had either danced around or poked fun at Stuart for this same subject, ignoring it or mocking it, but he couldn’t do it now. The vulnerability in his voice must have been reflected on his face too, as Stu’s eyes swept over him, searching for an answer and only finding a question.

He swallowed hard once, then slowly shook his head. “It was…it’s so hard to explain. Really. It was like turning on a light at the top of the stairs, just when your foot slips. Scary, but…right, somehow. We looked at each other and we knew.”

John swallowed hard, looking from Stuart and out the window to the grey, sleety sky beyond. His friend watched him for a moment longer, then tentatively pressed the subject. “John? Is…everything all right? Why are you—” But he came up short as something clicked in his mind then, and he finally set his paint brush down in astonishment. “John…did you meet someone? That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

“I…I don’t know what this,” John responded thickly. “But I didn’t think it would go like this.”

He turned then and headed down the hallway, shutting himself up in his room. It was going to be a long evening, but the idea of doing anything but putting this day behind him wasn’t an option. A few quick snorts and he’d be gone, he’d be untouchable, and that was all that really mattered.

Who was really to blame here but himself? He’d let someone he’d known for only a matter of minutes get under his skin. Whatever the universe or some higher cosmic being had intended for them here, it simply didn’t matter.

Not to Paul, at any rate, so it couldn’t to John either.

* * *

 

He had walked away. No more than ten minutes after he fled the scene and left John behind, Paul regretted it. He’d collapsed onto a seat on the bus with legs that shook a little, and he couldn’t help but peer through the grimy glass in the desperate hope of seeing who he had just ran away from—but John had gone. He didn’t know if he should be disappointed or relieved about that.

At the time, all he could do was continue to tremble, like he had just been jolted from a terrible fright. And in some sense…he really had, hadn’t he? His eyes were hurting him, everything around him had changed, and it was all just too _much._

When he got off the bus at his stop, Paul had to pause on the pavement to look around him, the now-familiar scene rendered alien once again with the sudden change. He had spent enough time consulting his color wheel that he felt he could name them all, the new shades all around him, like something out of a vivid dream he had had once. Flowers in a box outside someone’s window drew his attention, a medley of purples and pink and green, and he couldn’t help but think back to the garden Jim tended to back home, his dad’s other pride and joy. Maybe, all along…

Paul hurried back home after that, but he didn’t have it in him to talk to Ivan—or anyone else, for that matter—about what had happened today. His roommate was just pleased that they had connected with John in the first place, though he did seem a little disappointed with Paul’s apparent lack of interest in any further band talk.

He didn’t know what to think about any of it. His thoughts felt scattered, swirling, snowflakes caught in a breeze, to the point where even sitting down with his guitar and trying to putter out some music was near-impossible, a sure sign that something was wrong here. He kept looking out the window or getting distracted by ordinary objects, rendered into something new now.

All of it was. And he had the arrival of just one person to account for that.

He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling, the image of that stricken look on John’s face. It was true that he technically didn’t owe him anything for whatever it was that had unfurled between them, but what had happened wasn’t insignificant. It was _huge._

The least he could do was talk to him, even just once. Properly, this time. If he went ahead and claimed he wasn’t even a little bit intrigued…well, that would be a hell of a lie.

He wasn’t committing to anything, he reminded himself as he couldn’t help but fidget in class thinking about his plan for immediately afterwards. It didn’t _have_ to lead to anything—what was important was clearing the air. Maybe getting some kind of clue as to _why._ Why here, and why him?

The breath that had been building in his chest seemed to let go as the class was dismissed, people heading for the doors in streams. His own feet nearly dragged at first, but he made himself pick up the pace. For god’s sake, he was just going to meet one person, not face an execution squad or sign a marriage license. Funny how those two concepts seemed to blur together now.

He headed down the steps that led outside the building, peering through the flow of people for a sight of him. He knew Ivan had several classes in the building just one over and that students often took advantage of this courtyard when the weather was nice, and so if the fates had aligned…or if he was just very lucky—

And there he was. No question about it.

Paul couldn’t tell what exactly inspired him to take a deep breath and walk over to where he saw the figure seated on an old stone wall—but he did. The familiar weight of the guitar case against his back was somewhat reassuring, like having an older friend here with him. Inexplicably, his pulse seemed to be jumping, beating a staccato rhythm in his chest.

John was perched on the stone wall, leaning on his own guitar case for support as he sprawled out and read a rather secondhand-looking book. When the sun hit his hair just right, as it was doing now, it was easy to see the reddish glow in it, the light catching in the strands. It was stunning, just for a moment, until John shifted his head and caught sight of Paul.

There was a brief moment of notable, visible surprise on his face before the mask fell back into place. “Well…I’ll be damned.”

“I just…saw you, and I—what’s, uh…what’s that you’re reading?” It was a stupid question, Paul immediately wanted to kick himself, but it seemed the safest opening right now.

“Joyce,” John offered, holding the book up a little. “Dreadful, boring mess—have you ever read his stuff?”

“A little. It was…all right, really.”

John closed the book around his thumb, resting it on his leg as he adjusted his position, sitting instead so his legs were dangling and he was completely facing Paul, an open, aggressive move. “You didn’t come over here to talk about dead guys and their old poetry, did you?”

“No, I…” Paul fiddled with the strap of his bag for a moment before telling himself that he couldn’t keep waffling around about this, and that he had better say what his intentions were or come off as even more of an idiot. “I just think that…I wasn’t fair to you the other day. I think we got off on a bit of the wrong foot.”

“Oho, do you now?” John arched his eyebrows imperiously. “’s all right, I haven’t been crying into my pillow about it.”

“Neither have I,” Paul said, a bit testily—couldn’t he see he was trying to offer a bit of an olive branch here? “But that doesn’t make it…right, y’know?”

He bit his lip as if he could retract the last question, take it right back, but John didn’t respond right away—he instead watched Paul with squinting eyes for a moment, and he realized then that he wasn’t wearing the glasses he had spotted on him during that first fateful glance. Maybe he just couldn’t see…or maybe he really just was sizing him up.

“Might be that it does. But it happened, it’s behind us, let’s let bygones be bygones, eh?”

John was stuffing the book back in his bag, closing it up and clearly preparing to leave, and it occurred to Paul with a jolt that he was giving him the same kind of treatment as he had turned on him the other day. “Hang on—I—”

Mercifully, John paused, and Paul’s eyes darted over to the guitar case of his own still resting nearby. “…we never did get to play anything together. You still want to give it a go?”

He hesitated for a heartbeat, as if expecting a trap, but then gave a slow grin. “Oh, sure—you’re on. Hope you haven’t got anywhere _else_ you suddenly need to be while we’re at it.” His voice had turned a little snide, plainly a cutting remark to their last encounter, but Paul refused to take the bait.

“I don’t think so—and you neither then?”

“Oh, I’ve got a class in about fifteen minutes,” John said carelessly, as he scooped his guitar case up. With his free hand, he dug a cap out of his bag and jammed it over his head. “But sod it.”

“Is that…something you do often then?” Paul asked as they began to walk, moving away from the academic buildings and down the pavement. Despite the steady trickle of foot traffic, they maintained a decent space in between them, arms only brushing once.

“Only every so often…I’ve got some professors who likely wouldn’t recognize my face though,” John admitted. Paul had paused to wait to cross over the street and John comically came to a pause in front of him, halting in his tracks and turning round to follow him. “Where are we going, exactly?”

“We can use one of the school’s studios. Won’t be a problem.”

John nodded, waiting until they had made it across the street before he spoke again. “So I take it that Paul McCartney is a good lad with a good head on his shoulders, who’s never once skived off class before?”

“Not _never,”_ Paul grinned. “But I’ll admit…it doesn’t happen all the time. ‘s not why I’m here, y’know?”

“It’s only bloody university,” John complained. “Not like you’ve signed up for seminary or anything.”

“Maybe not…but it’s still a big deal. I can count on one hand the number of people in my family who have been to university, who’ve made it this far. Maybe it’s different for you.”

It was, but John held his tongue as he glanced over at the seemingly mild expression on Paul’s face. There was a kind of pride there, something that John also couldn’t relate to, certainly not when it came to his academic record. He was here because a family member wanted him to be as well, but it didn’t come with this sense of achievement.

John had had little reason to set foot inside the music building on the campus, given that the band usually practiced in Shotton’s garage or the like, but he was unsurprised to find it was a hive of activity on the inside. Classrooms were on the second floor, the studios mostly on the first one, and Paul led John down to one that wasn’t in use. One of the more spacious ones, it featured enough room for a piano and several benches, one of which John plopped unceremoniously down on.

Paul set his guitar case down before he sat at the piano, almost absentmindedly playing a melody on the instrument. “It’s sort of funny…the whole world changed, but of course the piano looks the same to me. Still black and white. Guess some things were always meant to be constant.”

John titled his head a little at that. “You like it that way?”

“I dunno. It’s good to know some things are consistent, I guess. To know that I haven’t gone completely mad and all this is…real.”

In the next moment, John got to his feet again and ambled over to Paul, giving him a tiny nudge. “Budge along there, budge along—I’ll show you what’s real.”

Paul leaned back a little, eyebrows raised in more of a challenging expression as John scooted next to him on the left side and lifted his fingers over the keys, giving them a practicing wiggle as he remained poised, a coiled trap about to spring and unleash something masterful—and then he brought them down, and the opening, jaunty melody of “Heart and Soul” filled the room.

Startled despite himself, Paul let out a short laugh. “Oh, well done—regular Jerry Lee Lewis we’ve got over here.”

John said nothing, just waggled his eyebrows in something of a hopeful manner, and Paul heaved a sigh…but in the next moment, he too had brought his hands to the keys to play the second part of the song. They worked in tandem, playing the simple, light-hearted but familiar tune for a couple go-rounds, and by the end of it, Paul was grinning too as he finished with more of a jazzy flourish.

“Audition’s over,” John declared, now banging away on something that sounded a little more rock n’ roll.

“Oh, I do hope I’ve passed,” Paul said with mock-concern as he stood up, then found a new seat as he started to open up his guitar case.

“Mm, I’ll speak with our manager,” John said, then made a great show of double-taking over his shoulder before turning round again. “The manager says ‘maybe.’”

“Wait until the manager hears a little more,” Paul insisted, looping his guitar strap over his shoulder to adjust it properly. “Let’s play awhile, yeah?”

It was an invitation, it was a challenge, it was an extended hand both of them wanted to take, and John felt a small current run through him as they finished setting the guitars up, as they got everything in place. By the time they settled down, they were sitting a few feet apart but facing each other, and it occurred to Paul then that with how his left-handed self held his guitar and how John held his, they created a near-mirror image of each other. A reflection.

“Right—let’s hear it.”

And for around fifteen minutes, he was content to let Paul play and sing to a few songs he knew and some he didn’t, all very close to the musical vibe John tried to keep going with his band—despite any behavior like he didn’t really care one way or another, Paul had obviously done his homework. By the end of it, John was leaning forward a little in his seat, as if drawn to the sound, and Paul lifted his gaze up to meet his.

“Let’s…let’s go for something a little different. Try something together.”

“I’m up for anything,” John responded quickly, gathering his wits about him again, and Paul bit his lower lip.

“It’s probably not quite what you’re going for…you know that James Bay song that’s always on the radio?” He played the few opening chords, a quiet, achingly sad sound that John recognized, and he gave a nod.

“Turn it into a duet?”

“Yeah. Make it slow, like. I’ll take the lead, and you…can come in on the second verse.”

He thought John might object to this, might insist that the whole exercise was stupid and refuse to do it, but he was getting his guitar ready again—whatever magic was working here, it was affecting both of them. Leaning his head down a bit, John had to give his hair a casual flick to keep it from hanging too much in his face, and Paul watched the action with sudden attention before remembering their task at hand.

He cleared his throat, and he began to play. _“From walking home and talking loads, to seeing shows in evening clothes with you…”_

He made it through the first chorus with John simply playing a backing guitar part, but then he came in for the second verse, that slightly acid-tinged voice that Paul had known of him before anything else now even hoarser, made somehow both coarser and softer with the milder-sounding song. _“I used to recognize myself, it’s funny how reflections change…”_

Their voices joined together for the chorus and the next one to come, a proverbial honey and vinegar mixing, and Paul could sense when John heard it too, when it clicked in his own mind. He looked up as they finished the song, holding gazes, and they didn’t break away until the last note had faded away, until their fingers stilled and all went quiet—and not even really then either.

_“And I’ll be me.”_

There was a pause absolutely loaded with electricity, and John finally broke it by giving something of a shaky laugh. “Well, that was…that was something different. I doubt it’d get the kids fired up though, and you know we’re just here to create chaos.”

Something felt like it was shaking in Paul’s chest, a livewire he didn’t dare touch, but he gave a jerky nod and managed to slap a smile on. “Yeah, it…just messing about and all. Maybe you’ve got a brand, but it can’t hurt to branch out.”

“Maybe it can’t.” John fell silent then, as if willing the moment to last longer, but it was eventually Paul who broke it.

“What do you say we…go and get something to eat maybe? I’ll buy.”

At this, John had to give a bit of a grin. “Well…how can I say no to that?”

It was different, to not only see the world now as it was meant to be, but to walk alongside the person who was responsible for that change. Something about playing music, which they had both found salvation in in a darker time, seemed to have opened a door a little more, if only just a crack, and they could walk beside each other in a companionable silence. Their arms barely brushed, but each time they came close, Paul felt that faint electric sensation once more, a tingle that seemed to spread up his spine as well.

They found a little hole in the wall pub to eat at, John taking the bench along the wall and sprawling out like he was at home. He did that a lot, Paul had noticed, all long limbs spilled everywhere, as if he didn’t care just how much space he took up. The laces on one of his boots were undone, he suddenly observed, but John didn’t seem to know or care.

They ordered their food and spent some time chatting, mostly about music, but the topic soon swung around to something a little riskier as a police car drove by, its sirens flashing, and both of them were inevitably drawn to turn and look at the swirling lights for a moment.

“God, I wonder if I’ll ever get used to that,” John said with something of a grin at himself, taking a chug of his drink. Paul leaned back in his own seat, the back legs tipping slightly off the floor.

“I’m not there yet myself. ‘Course, red’s not anything new by now."

"Bit weird, isn’t it, how we started seeing only one color first?”

“It happened to me after that night in Prism,” Paul remarked thoughtfully. “I was there with, uh…you know, Jane, and suddenly there was red. I went outside for a moment, and when I came back in—it was there.”

“The plot thickens,” John deadpanned, pulling a face for a moment. “When exactly were you at the club? I mean…maybe if—”

“I think it was the night of the 21st. Just before term started.”

At this, the eyebrows flew up in genuine surprised realization. “Oh, bugger…I think that’s a night I was there too. Maybe we just missed each other, eh?”

Paul gave a bit of a sheepish smile. “Maybe so, yeah. I think I would…remember seeing you.”

John mulled over his drink, thinking it over. “Maybe that’s why we could only see…one color, like. We were close, but not close enough—to each other, I mean.”

His gaze flicked upwards just in time to meet Paul’s, who suddenly fought off the massive urge to cough and pretended to be fixated on the drink menu still on the table. “That could be it. The whole thing’s just…it’s just sort of mad, isn’t it?”

“I think the world the way it used to be was the mad part,” John said simply. “Now it’s like…it’s put right. Where it should be.”

Paul didn’t say anything in response—but the look that passed between them spoke volumes all the same.

After they had paid their tab, they spilled out into the blue-black of evening, street lamps making bright spots along the pavement. John paused to smoke a cigarette, eyeing Paul with almost some trepidation. However, it felt like a lot of the tension had left Paul by now, being here with this person who was somehow meant to be important to him.

John fidgeted, torn between several choices, but ultimately decided that he wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye yet—maybe he could blame it on having too much to drink, or maybe he was simply giddy with the atmosphere yet, with the discovery and all that it entailed. “If you don’t have important places to be…I think there’s somewhere else I’d like to go.”

Paul looked curious at that. “Oh? Where’s that?”

“Well, you haven’t been here as long as I have…c’mon.”

Intrigued, Paul followed along as the two of them headed off into the streets of London. Their walk led them down to the South Bank, just along the Thames, where one-half of the city lay across the water. At night, one could see all the various lights from the buildings on the opposite side. Before, it had always been a wash of more shades of grey, but the sight was now a different one indeed.

Colors danced on the surface of the water, blues and reds and greens, a medley of everything that had once been lost. It was hard not to be transfixed, to not get immersed in the world it created, and Paul had to lean over the side of the railing to get a better look for a moment.

“Oh, John…you were right. Can you believe this was here all along, this whole time?”

“No,” John said quietly, his voice surprisingly on the hoarser side. “I had no idea.”

But his eyes weren’t fixed on the dancing lights in the river—they were locked on Paul instead.

“And before I forget to mention…if you want that spot in the band, McCartney, it’s yours.”

* * *

 

It didn’t take much time for the other band members to warm up to the new additions. Ivan had successfully implemented himself into the group as well, leading to many jokes that Pete Shotton’s garage was indeed becoming too crowded for all of them. John was largely indifferent to the fact so long as they kept making music together, and it took no time at all to realize that adding the new members had been an inspired move.

It was hard for even the most reluctant members of the Quarry Man to dispute that Paul in particular had musical talent, and especially when it came to playing the bass—to some minor surprise, Stuart had seem unruffled by this, patiently listening when the newcomer walked him through how to play some chords on more than one occasion. Even back home in their shared flat with John, relations seemed to be improving.

What was more, not long afterwards, John had finally shelved his pride and sent Ringo a careful text, inviting him over to the flat. He was almost surprised when he said yes, even more so when, after he managed a half-assed apology for being such a shit to him earlier, that Ringo only made a noncommittal humming sort of sound and took a long sip of his tea.

“You don’t need to get all sappy. I know you mean it.”

John, who was all but squirming on the spot, squinted at him with something like suspicion then. “You do? I mean, _I_ do, but it’s just…you know…”

“I know. But you only sound like you’re being tortured when you’re sincere about something.”

But he was smiling, a faint but honest one, and John nearly collapsed. He shook his head as he finally managed to sit down, having been pacing around before, and exhaled. “You’re the top of the class, Rings.”

“Ah, lay off it,” Ringo snorted. “You know I don’t hold a grudge, John. And things must be going pretty well in your world if you’ve given up on yours.”

It was a doleful observation of John’s character, but true enough, and he found he didn’t have it in him to fight it. “Well…yeah, they are. You know I’ve met Paul now and everything, for real this time, and he’s…great. He’s a good bloke.”

Ringo raised his eyebrows knowingly. “Oh, I see then…well, I’m glad you’ve made friends now and everything. It must be an amazing feeling, to…you know, know that person. I reckon it’s special.”

John said nothing, but he privately agreed—it was hard not to feel like he was buoyed by something greater than himself now, a private kind of feeling that kept him going. And it was everywhere, impossible to escape, visible in everything.

Even after about a month had gone by, that feeling still hadn’t left him. Something so new and exciting had accordingly created a kind of spark in his music and his song-writing, and he’d spent many long nights either by himself or with Paul working on lyrics and melodies and chord progressions. They’d sit in one of their rooms or outside if the weather was nice, guitars in hand and a notebook beside them, sometimes spending hours together.

It was a new kind of magic to be making here, something else to be discovered together—and it was every bit as explosive and heart-pounding as what had brought them here in the first place. Another kind of new world.

And it didn’t take long for the others to notice how John was acting. Ringo had shrewdly observed it, but other friends and especially band members were soon to catch on too. “I think someone’s just head over heels,” Pete teased once, when Paul wasn’t in earshot, and John had threatened to walk out if the resulting mockery that came with it kept up.

But it was only a matter of time before it came to a head. One night when he was huddled up on the couch, laptop out and at least sort-of pretending to be writing a paper for class, the sound of soft footsteps padding nearby jolted him out of his stupor. John looked over only to see Stuart hovering by him, looking almost anxious, and he set his laptop aside as he sat up on the couch and raked his fingers through his hair, causing it to stick up.

“What’s up, Stu?”

“Are…you busy right now?” Stuart asked carefully, eying John’s current set-up.

“Hell no, I’m always looking for a distraction—fancy a chat?”

“That’s a word for it.” Stuart sat down nearby, picking at a loose thread on the couch for a moment as John eyed him warily, and then he finally took a deep breath and began to speak.

Look, there’s…a couple things. First, I…I think it’s about time that I quit the band.”

John made a squawk of alarm at that, leaning forward. “Stu! Come on now, your playing’s gotten loads better—”

“Because Paul’s been teaching me,” Stuart said simply, no trace of resentment in his voice. “He’s better than I am, and…his heart’s more in it too. You know that, John, don’t even try and bullshit me.”

John, a professional bullshitter, merely sat and mulled it over for a moment—his lack of response signified the gravity of the situation, and Stuart pressed the advantage.

“And while we’re on the subject…I know you really like him, John. Anyone with eyes could see it.”

“Well, it’s…you know, it’s something special. Like with you and Astrid, I s’pose. Different, but…”

But Stuart was giving a tiny but genuine smile, some tenseness in his shoulders disappearing. John could understand why—only a few months ago, they never could have been carrying on this conversation without acid lacing his tone. “I get it. I do. So I’m hoping that you…can understand where _I’m_ coming from too—I’m not trying to hurt you or…anything like that.”

He wasn’t, and that had been it all along, hadn’t it? No matter what John might have perceived before, he had been in the wrong…about a great deal many things. How could he blame Stu for something like this? He gave a little cough though, still just dealing with the subject, and managed a sigh.

“Oh, well…I know you’re not. And if you’d really rather just up and leave, Stu, if you’re _really_ gonna insist—”

“I’ll still be friends with you and the rest of the lot! But having that extra time…it’ll really free me up to do more of what _I_ want. To really focus on my art. And they have, well…an exchange program at a school in Italy that I’ve been looking into. I’d be gone for a whole term if I went.”

“Italy? Blimey, no meager feat then, huh? And leave me here all by my lonesome?”

“Well, that’s the thing…you would need a new flatmate,” Stuart admitted. “But that shouldn’t be too hard to manage, should it? But it’s a fantastic opportunity, I don’t want to pass it by.”

“And you shouldn’t,” John spoke plainly. “I’ll just, uh…you know. I might happen to miss you, is all. A little.”

“Oh no, you’ll be all right,” Stuart insisted, though he had settled down into the couch so their shoulders were touching in an amicable way. “’Sides, I figure you’ll have plenty here to distract you. I’ll send messages all the time.”

“If you don’t, I’m officially disowning you.”

Stuart’s laugh was warm and genuine, a sound that continued to fill John with more of a bittersweet kind of happiness instead of twisted despair, as it might have once. It felt…better, to have less pressure on his chest, to feel something unwind in him. He was at ease with where things had gone, and this time, letting go didn’t feel like something painful but something natural instead, as easy as exhaling a long breath that had been held for far too long.

If only the rest of it was that simple. But long after the high had worn off later, the last of the smoke curling and disappearing into the air, a dull part of his mind registered that he was already too far gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can also find me at [tomorrowmayrain](http://tomorrowmayrain.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here we are...this is the final chapter of the fic! i really can't thank everyone enough who took time to read it, who left me a kudo, or who wrote a comment. i doubted much of anyone would like it at all, let alone all these people, and it really made me so glad to see it. 
> 
> i'm also very happy to be writing again. so while this particular fic is over, this won't be the last thing i publish! please feel to drop me a line just to talk or hey, send me an idea. my inbox is always open. and once again, thank you.
> 
> there is also a small cameo in this chapter i couldn't resist adding in...i hope it's picked up on :)

_"I found love darlin',_

_Love in the nick of time"_

_—_ [Bon Iver, "I Can't Make You Love Me"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vp-bPAKLfx4)

* * *

 

For as quickly as things were picking up, there were still others that seemed to have reached a standstill. Things with Jane had never really quite taken off the ground—she and Paul both maintained busy schedules, both of them workaholics, and meeting out for a bite to eat sometime on the weekends soon became about as best as they could do. They both still danced around the idea of any kind of commitment, but for now, it seemed enough to keep seeing her semi-regularly.

But there was also little denying that he found something else now too—some _one_ else. John had a way with the written word that Paul sometimes thought his own self for lack…for someone as carelessly blunt as John could be at times, when he wrote lyrics, they were nothing short of inspired. Beautiful, sometimes. It felt almost ridiculously easy to fall into a rhythm with him, a sort of push-pull like the motion of the tide coming in as they worked together, played off one another.

“No, but if we tweak that chord here—”

“Change it from an A—”

“Yeah, play that again! Let’s hear it again, right from the top.”

“OK, but what if we—”

And on it went.

He even mentioned John to Jim in their phone conversations—more than once. His father seemed almost amused by the subject, but listened patiently as Paul chattered away. “So when are you bringing him round for tea, then?” He had chuckled once, and Paul was thankful he hadn’t seen the flush on his face.

He had already decided that the next time he went back home would be when he officially informed Jim of the change, of the fact that he could see the world in color now. Paul wanted to be there to see his face, to experience that moment, and he was more than looking forward to revisiting old scenes from his childhood—such as his dad’s garden—now that they looked as they actually should have.

Paul told John about that too. They were sitting up on the rooftop of the building he lived in, splitting a paper bag of hot, greasy chips that slid through their fingers when they rifled around for them, and watching the last remnants of the sun slip beneath the horizon—though it had been some time now, neither of them were still quite used to the medley of colors that exploded across the sky at sundown. They had, after all, spent their lives thus far unaware of such a thing, it didn’t seem too much to believe that it would take some time to think of it as mundane.

“So, y’know, I’m sort of looking forward to going back home for that,” Paul admitted. “And I reckon my dad’s got to miss me at least a _little_ by now.”

“My aunt sure doesn’t miss me,” John snorted. “Or maybe she does, it’s impossible to tell with her most times…let’s just say that you’re lucky to have your dad.”

“I know that,” Paul said quietly, wiping his fingers on a napkin that came with the chips. “Sometimes he’s hard to read too—but I know he cares about me. I bet your aunt is the same way.”

“Maybe she is,” John agreed, but somewhat sullenly. He reached for another chip just as Paul moved to grab the bag, and their fingers wound up brushing for half a moment. It wasn’t anything wild, nobody jolted like they had touched electricity, but something of a knowing look flew between them instead. An understanding.

Letting it go, John instead began to root around in his open knapsack to try and find his pack of cigarettes, and Paul’s gaze turned at the sound of the shuffling noise. Before a spiral-bound notebook blocked it from view, he thought he caught a glimpse of something like a pill capsule.

“John…” He began slowly. “You’re not still…I mean you’re not—”

“Don’t worry about it,” John said, a little tersely as he lit up his cigarette and took a drag. There was silence for a moment while he smoked, the sun just slipping behind some distant buildings, and Paul couldn’t help but point it out.

“I love that. That…that bit of orange, when everything else is all dark blue. You know all those mad old poets you read? I think they _had_ to have been…able to see. Some of them, at least. That’s the only way they could write some of the stuff that they did.”

 “It’s why the two of us are writing better now, innit?” John asked, his voice almost hoarse as he pulled the cigarette away—he suddenly didn’t feel like finishing it, and crushed it under his shoe. “And here we are, sitting around watching the bloody sunset and all…I dunno. There’s something bigger than the two of us, that’s for damn sure.”

“That…would make sense,” Paul agreed, though his voice sounded strangely cautious to his ears—there was something about John’s own, slightly huskier and softer, that caused a dusting of sparks to dance under his skin. He stole a glance over at the figure beside him, hoping to catch one of the quick looks he often did in rehearsal or just out and about together, but this time, John was looking back.

“There’s a reason for it then, huh?” He asked, eyes scanning Paul’s face as if looking for an answer there. “For all this crazy stuff?”

“Maybe it’s not as crazy as I thought at first. Maybe it was sort of…meant to happen.”

John moved forward at that, as if some great invisible magnet was pulling him in, and his fingers moved to touch Paul’s cheek—who didn’t turn away. “You don’t know how much I’ve been dying to hear you say that.”

Paul knew what was going to happen a moment before it did, and any protest that might have been on his lips died when John leaned in and kissed them. Some kind of live wire seemed to rocket up his spine, a bolt from the blue emboldened him, caused a soft sound to leave his mouth that John just took for encouragement. He tasted faintly like the salt from the chips, like cigarette smoke, something thick and heady that sent Paul’s head to spinning, that caused him to lift his hands and twine them in thick auburn hair.

He didn’t know just what exactly he was doing, only that it felt so right, almost flashing back to that first dizzying moment when all the world had fallen into place for them. It felt like that feeling, only magnified, and Paul was soon kissing him back, so ready to fall apart—

Except for that he wasn’t. A tiny, still-rational part of his brain reminded him of that, and in the sudden shock, like having a bucket of cold water thrown over his head, he had to pull away.

John made a noise of his own at that, face flushed as his eyes desperately scanned his face. “Are you…I mean…was that all right?”

“It was…oh, John, I… _yes,_ but I can’t say…not for sure—”

He didn’t know what it was that was holding him back, but it was obvious to see in the glow of a nearby streetlight how John’s face first lit up and then fell again the more Paul jabbered on. “If you’re not…you can be honest, I just thought—”

“It isn’t that,” Paul managed to insist firmly. “Not at all.”

“So it’s just…me, then.” His voice had turned flatter, more dispirited, as he angled his body away slightly, and despair clawed at Paul’s inside.

“No! Don’t you dare think that—I just don’t _know,_ John. I don’t know where I want this lead. I just know that I…”

But he cut himself off, letting his voice trail off, and John fixed him with a look—of course, he hadn’t miss even a subtle change in him. “You know that…what?”

Paul was silent for another moment, his lips still seeming to tingle a little from the bruising kiss, as he gave a quiet sigh. “I can’t explain it. John, please just trust me on this one…it’s _not_ you.”

“Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of,” John muttered under his breath, and decided to light another cigarette. The smoke wafted up and billowed in between them like everything else they weren’t saying, swirling and disappearing into the air. Paul watched it go, longing to break the silence but unsure just what he could say.

* * *

 

The week that followed had been stilted and somewhat awkward, almost painfully so. John certainly seemed hurt enough to not respond to any of Paul’s messages, and although he made it to a scheduled band rehearsal, it was plain to see that his heart wasn’t truly in it. And there were no more of those side-long glances the two of them seemed practically to have invented, that snatch of meaningful eye contact. John rigidly kept his gaze fixed away from him as much as he could, and Paul didn’t blame him.

It was his natural inclination to put on a cheerful face and keep the beat going even when he really felt terrible, but this troubled him enough that there really wasn’t any covering it up from those who knew him well. Ivan tiptoed around the flat like he was living with someone oversensitive to noise, but George was far more on the blunt side. The next time Paul saw him, it was almost enough to make him regret confessing anything to him.

“Please. I’d say it’s pretty obvious what’s eating you right now.”

“It is?”

George lifted his eyes heavenward as if praying for a higher deity to swoop in and save him from Paul’s cluelessness. “Obviously. It’s that John guy. Don’t know why you’re digging your heels in about it, really. The signs are all right there, in literal, actual color.”

“Signs for what?” Paul demanded. “We already found each other—isn’t that what really matters? Why does there need to be anything _more?”_

“There should be if that’s what you both want. That’s all I’m saying.”

It was easy enough for George to pass judgement on the matter, as it hadn’t been him who had literally had his entire world changed—but Paul held his tongue. How could he properly articulate the longing that he did feel, so much it almost took him aback? How could he convey the unease there that something would go wrong, that in a couple years’ time, all this would be for naught as he and John had drifted apart? That all of this was just too much, so far beyond him?

He couldn’t explain it, not really, to George. But there was somebody else he could talk to, _had_ to talk to. And even if it felt like the actual words might stick in his throat, there was another language he and John spoke that could bring it all together.

He and George were outside, out for a walk to grab dinner now that the younger boy’s shift was over, but Paul, as always, had a pencil and paper with him. Vague ideas were already beginning to shift through his mind, proper lyrics beginning to take form, and he was just starting to idly hum something—knowing he could put it right. John would understand, and they’d figure something out, and—

Paul came to a sudden halt then. A big red bus had just gone rumbling past on the street, sticking out clearly in a washed-out, otherwise rainy day, but there was something distinctly _off_ about it. Something about the color just didn’t look right, an off-kilter sort of shade instead of its usual brightness, and he had to pause in his tracks to watch it go. Maybe it was simply the color of that bus in particular…

But no—as he looked around, he suddenly became aware, with a horrible bolt of panic, how it was happening everywhere else too. A trail of shrubs along the pavement began losing their green, the color sapping and fading away right before his stunned eyes. Glancing wildly around him was like something out of a horror story as his stomach dropped, the breath knocked him out of him, as all around him the world slowly began to blanch back to how it once was.

“Paul?” Frowning, George turned around several paces ahead. “You all right?”

“I…I don’t think so…” It wasn’t happening at a quick rate, but slowly, it was all disappearing. And it was all so _wrong,_ so terribly, blatantly wrong, that Paul’s thoughts could only scramble around and dash to another point in his life.

 _It’s all gone. All the color’s gone._ Jim had said it once, immediately after Mary died, and a younger Paul just hadn’t understood him at the time.

An iron fist seemed to tighten around his throat as something clicked in his mind. That had been Mary to his father. And now, now that it was happening to him…

 _John._ Something must have gone wrong, something had to have happened. Distantly, he heard himself spluttering out some kind of vague apology to a very confused George before he excused himself, slowly turning as if in a dream and heading back down the pavement.

He didn’t even bother texting first, the panic welling up in him first compelled him to try calling John’s number. “Pick up, pick up, pick _up,”_ Paul found himself muttering, watching as it all faded around him, but after too many prolonged, piercing rings, he only got the voicemail message.

“…and if this is any sales pitch waiting to happen, you can fuck right off. Thanks for your time!”

A beep. “John,” Paul blurted out, almost struggling to grip the phone properly for a second. “Just, uh…just call me when you get this, all right? I need to…I’ve gotta hear your voice, I’ll explain then. Bye.”

Paul could hardly breathe past the sensation that something was most definitely terribly, awfully wrong, and he only just managed to scramble onto a bus that he knew would take him in the direction of John’s flat. From there, it was impossible not to check his phone every few seconds, heart pounding as he waited on an answer—but none ever came. Unless John was sleeping or otherwise occupied, he never took so long to reply to anything. He wouldn’t have worried about it had it not been for what else was happening around him.

He hurried down the block or two to the flat, but everything looked deceptively normal from here—besides what was already happening to him, of course. The outside of the building was quiet, with nothing out of the ordinary going on, and Paul saw himself in. He seemed to take the stairs up to the flat two at a time.

The door was locked, and nobody answered when he rang the bell. After waiting for several prolonged, painful minutes, Paul determined there was nothing he could do. The feeling of helplessness clawed inside his stomach, and he knew full well he simply couldn’t wait here for something to happen—he had to do _something._

It took texting several mutual friends to find Stuart’s phone number…despite all their time together, he’d never once bothered to get it himself, and it was now coming back to bite him. It took several tries over the course of nearly twenty minutes for Stu’s voice, sounding harrowed and on edge, to come onto the line.

“Hello?”

Paul let out a sharp breath at the sound, but hurriedly pressed on. “Stu? Hi, it’s Paul…listen—”

“Paul? How do you…how did you know already?”

So there was something _to_ know in the first place—Paul closed his eyes, blocking out the world that was fading, though it at least seemed to have stabilized recently. The rapid change was over, but the sick feeling rising in his stomach was rearing to a new life. “What is there to know? Stu, you gotta tell me, did something happen to John?”

Stuart said nothing at first…and it was that weighty silence, that pointed pause, that nearly got Paul to drop the phone. “Stu!”

“We’re at the hospital right now. He…they think he’s going to be OK. He’s stable, at least.”

“But what _happened?”_

“An overdose,” Stuart responded, his voice flat. “He was at our friend’s place and I guess they just…went too far. He got carried away, you know how…how he could be sometimes.”

Did he? The swooping sensation in Paul’s stomach was akin to missing a step going down the stairs, but he was tumbling into nothing instead. He had seen the signs, the hints, but maybe he’d chosen to ignore them. Maybe he was so sure that John was set in his ways, that he knew what he was doing, that he never thought to question it. Maybe if he had said something once, this wouldn’t be happening now.

He began to pace, feet instinctively moving in aimless, restless tracks. “But he’s all right? You said he was stable?”

“They…they think so. It’s still up in the air.”

But looking around him, Paul could see that that wasn’t quite so. If John was gone, really gone, all the color would be absolutely lost—and it wasn’t yet. Faded, yes, muted and dulled, far lighter…but not gone. As long as it stayed like that, he could allow hope to tangle in his chest.

“Can I…come in and see him?”

There was a measured pause. “I dunno. I’m here ‘cause I’m listed as an emergency contact. But I don’t think they would let…just anyone in yet.”

 _I’m not just anyone_. The words almost spilled from Paul, but he managed to hold his tongue—he couldn’t articulate just what he was to John anyway, perhaps not properly, but he was certainly a friend. He was certainly someone who cared. “W-well…just…can you tell me where you are? Or call me again when you get an update? Please, Stuart, I gotta…I gotta know.”

“Oh god, there’s a doctor here—I’ll call you back, all right? I’ll…let you know.”

“Please. Please…as soon as you can.”

They hung up, and Paul was left to stare into the paler world around him. It would be all right, he told himself, because he had a way to monitor things from right here, without having to go anywhere. But he couldn’t be still, his feet once again demanding to move, setting him off down the street. What good could he possibly do, how could he possibly help?

He couldn’t go home and act like everything was fine. He thought about calling Stuart again, but if he was busy, he wouldn’t get the phone anyway. Nevertheless, he kept his phone out, resting it on the stone ledge of the bench he had found near the river, where his feet had carried him.

Paul could still see the lights dancing on it, that night with just him and John. Even though his vision was blurring now, growing hot and nearly painful, that memory still stood out all the clearer to him. Almost on their own accord, his hands drifted to the straps of his messenger bag, swinging it around so he could open it up and take out the paper and pen he always kept with him, for moments such as these. When he needed them, because something in his mind was about to burst otherwise.

It was hard to hold the pen steady, and being left-handed already meant he was prone to smudging—it was even more prominent now with how it trembled. If the words could keep John safe now, Paul would write forever. It was a way to pass the time at least, a way to keep himself from frantically checking his phone every five seconds. Stu would call when he could, he _had_ to.

He didn’t even realize over an hour had passed until the phone shrilly ringing jolted him from his thoughts, and then he all but lunged for it. The colors around him had perhaps returned to something of a stronger state, but not enough to relax just yet. When he picked up the phone and blurted out a hello, Stuart thankfully didn’t waste any time beating around the bush.

“He’ll be fine, Paul. John’s resting just now, but I think…he’s going to be OK.”

He nearly fell over at that, if he hadn’t already been sitting down, Paul had no doubt that he would have collapsed. He had to squeeze his eyes shut, Stuart’s words replaying over and over again in his head like a broken record. _Thank god…thank god._

“They’re gonna send him home tomorrow morning. I’ll ask him if he’s feeling up for…visitors. People dropping by.”

Paul wanted to find his way to whatever hospital he was at right now, but he managed a stilted nod that Stuart couldn’t see. “Did you…get to talk to him at all?”

“A bit. He was pretty busy cussing the place out because they won’t let him smoke in there.”

At this, Paul couldn’t help but manage a weak, shaky smile. “That sounds like something he would do.” It sounded like something an alert, healthy John would do, and it actually boded well.

“It does. I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow, all right? I think he’s just going to be sleeping most of today anyway.”

It wasn’t quite what he wanted to hear, but just knowing that John was all right would have to be enough for now. Paul made Stuart promise, then settled for going for a walk around the city, letting his feet go where they wanted to. He slowly watched, as shade by stronger shade, color began to come back into the world, and he had to fight back a relieved, shaky smile more than once.

John would be OK. But they had to be sure something like this didn’t happen again.

By the time he finally decided to head for home, night had already fallen, and Ivan was sprawled on the couch and watching football. “There you are!” He twisted his head around when the door opened and closed. “God, I sent you a couple texts—didn’t you get them?”

“I, uh…sorry, Ivy. I’ve been…busy.”

The smell of takeout food wafting from plastic containers on their cluttered coffee table hit Paul’s nose then, and Ivan shot him a look but still waved towards the source. “Anyways, I got takeout if you want any. I’ve given up on writing me bloody term paper, the only thing it’s good for is lining a bird cage somewhere.”

Paul looked over at him, at that familiar face he had known for years now, and it felt like something constricted in his chest all day finally let go. He sank down, like a puppet with cut strings, into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands as the weight of everything just then washed over him, and Ivan’s voice cut above it all.

“Paul! Hey, Paul! What’s wrong?”

He lifted his face up, shaking his head at that. “Sorry, I’m just…I’m being…”

“What the hell happened to you today? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, Paul.”

Paul studied his friend’s earnest, openly concerned face, and gave a quiet sigh as he drug a hand down his face. “Listen, I…maybe it’s time I just came clean with you. So you can understand.”

“Oh Christ, you’re not part of some secret drug ring or something are you? It’s—”

“Ivan,” Paul said plainly. “Shut up. It’s…gonna take a bit to explain.”

***

Paul arrived at John’s flat later the following morning, fidgeting with the strap of the bag over his shoulder. He could think of a few different things to say, the usual tired nonsense, but John would be able to see right through any of that. And…he wanted to be sincere. Even if it meant losing his usual composure, well, he owed his friend that much.

The walk was made less excruciating by the fact that it seemed like the colors around him had stabilized once more, returning to their familiar hues and shades. It was reassuring in more than one way, not just an indication that it was still here for him, but that so was John. None of it was lost.

When he was admitted into the building and headed upstairs, he was initially surprised to hear raised voices coming from behind the door to the flat, especially because it wasn’t one that he recognized—but then it flew open, and a short woman in a pink coat with a severe, stony face came bursting out.

She peered at Paul with the deepest mistrust, straightening herself a little. “Hello. And just who exactly are you?”

Paul might have asked her the same thing, but Stuart appeared behind her, looking thoroughly exhausted already. “Mimi, this is Paul—he’s another one of John’s friends. Paul, this is John’s aunt, Mimi. We’re going out to get some groceries.”

 _“How_ the pair of you have been living,” Mimi said tartly, her eyes swiveling from Paul and back to Stuart. “Do you ever remember to eat?”

So this was the infamous Mimi—Paul had heard John make passing, often scathing remarks about her over time, but he had had no idea how to picture her. She was shorter than he imagined, but still held a commanding, arresting presence that seemed to fill the tiny corridor despite that. It was about the only thing thus far she appeared to have in common with her nephew.

“You can go on in, Paul,” Stuart spoke to him, looking almost apologetic for Mimi’s presence. “He’s all right, John’ll like to see you.”

“Thanks, Stu.” Paul’s voice must have gone a little thick with trepidation, as Mimi’s alert expression shifted into more of a scrutinizing one.

“Well, I don’t think John ought to be disturbed—”

“I won’t be long,” Paul assured her, fairly certain he was lying but doing his best to sound sincere and calming. “I’ll just pop in, say hello, be on my way. Wouldn’t want to wear him out now.”

Mimi didn’t seem quite convinced, but she permitted Stuart to carefully cajole her down the flight of stairs, Stu casting Paul one last fervent backwards look as they departed. He waited until their footsteps had disappeared, then took a deep breath before he let himself inside.

The flat seemed quieter somehow, still a whirlwind of a messy jumble that John and Stuart lived in—though some parts of it already looked a little cleaner, no doubt thanks to Mimi’s interference. Paul picked his way around some of the mess and headed back to John’s bedroom, where the door was slightly ajar. He paused, and then gave a tentative little knock.

“John? It’s me.”

A beat. “C’mon in.”

Paul’s imagination was expecting the worse, picturing John lying on the bed sick and frail-looking, but sharp relief punctured him when he actually clapped eyes on him. John looked paler, more exhausted somehow with dark rings under his eyes, sitting up in bed with his head leaning against the wall, but nowhere near as awful as he could have been. Still, Paul was used to one of two extremes—either he was in constant motion, or John could remain almost eerily still, curled up almost cat-like on a seat as he intently listened to Paul explain a chord or Stuart describe an art piece he was interested in.

This was neither of those things. He looked listless, almost lifeless, and his hair was a tangled mess—but the hopeful, almost fleeting smile that skittered across his face and then was gone at the sight of Paul was more familiar. As Paul approached him, however, John shut his eyes as if to shield them from a harsher glare.

“Can’t imagine how pathetic I look right now, all bed-ridden. Mimi won’t hear of me being up and around, but I feel like shite anyway.”

Paul took a seat at the end of the bed, closer to John’s feet as he set his bag down. “Stuart told me…he only told me a little bit. John, I…it’s been going around my head, please tell me that you weren’t trying—”

“I wasn’t ‘trying’ to do anything,” John interjected, his voice gaining some of its usual bite back. “’Cept what I always do…which is blow my mind out for a little while. I don’t know what happened, I must have gotten…carried away. Went too far, that’s all.”

“You almost died,” Paul said heatedly. “You can’t just write it off like that.”

John seemed almost perplexed for a moment. “Look, yesterday’s all a bit, believe it or not, pretty fuzzy to me. I know I was out for a while, but that’s about it. Did Stu tell you any more?”

“He didn’t have to. I can’t even…explain it, John.” But the despair on his face must have been obvious, as John leaned forward a little.

“Explain what? How did you know?”

Paul hesitated for a minute, then looked over to the window. “All of it…I mean _all_ of it, just…started to go. Started to fade, like. Like this—” He indicated the blue of the bedspread—“All of the color was going. Going away, because…because you were.”

He heard how his voice trembled a bit, and so did John. His eyes had widened as the meaning hit him, the significance dawning on him. “Holy Christ. Paul, it…I…”

“I can’t even say what it was like,” Paul admitted quietly. “All of that going away. Except that it was horrible, I was…scared, John. I was terrified.”

“You didn’t want to lose all that—”

“I didn’t want to lose _you.”_ His voice was more heated now, urgent—he had to make John see, have him understand even faintly how shaken he had been. “I know it had to mean…something. And I couldn’t…I just…”

Paul was losing track of his thoughts, something warm at his eyes, and John made a soft sound. “God, I…I’m sorry, I’m such a damn fuck-up, if I’d have known—”

“But you didn’t. And you’re _not_ , John, don’t say shite like that. The color going all at once like that was terrible…but it could all go, all of it, if it kept you around instead. You’ve gotta…you’ve just got to know that.”

Neither of them was quite sure how it had happened—but somewhere in the process of moving closer to each other, their fingers had twined in each other’s. The warm, dry weight was comforting in Paul’s hand, as was John’s near-hoarse voice when it spoke next.

“You mean that? You really mean that?”

“I’m not saying it for my health,” Paul managed something of a shaky smile, one that John couldn’t help but return. Paul’s thumb stroked across the skin it was in contact with almost of its accord, and neither of them made a move to break away.

“…it won’t happen again,” John finally broke the silence heavily. “It won’t. Mimi’s already paying a fucking fine to keep me out of the clink, but I’ve still gotta go to a bunch of _rehab_ classes. Imagine me huddled around a circle of folding chairs in a church somewhere.”

“It might…make for a good song someday,” Paul ventured tentatively, and John cracked a grin.

“It’s been done. The only thing it’s going to be is a huge pain in the arse.”

“I don’t want that to be…the _only_ thing. Hasn’t it gone on long enough?”

John nearly bristled at that, but found any argument died on his tongue—because Paul was right. Stuart had been saying it for ages, Ringo too, his other friends…there had to come a time when enough was enough, and almost _dying_ certainly counted as a wake-up call. His free hand fiddled with a loose thread on the blanket, hot shame rising in his chest.

“Yeah, it…it has. The program still sounds like a load of rubbish, but I mean…I guess I’ve got to start somewhere.”

“You’re welcome to bitch about how awful it is to me,” Paul said simply. “But I hope you knew that already.”

Another pause, and then John lightly squeezed his hand. “There’s a lot of stuff I already know. It was you who was always the unsure one.”

“There’s something I know for certain. I don’t ever want…I don’t ever want to go through what happened yesterday again. And I don’t want us to be apart. You know?”

“Yeah,” John said softly. “I know.”

Paul disconnected their hands, but only in the interest of going for his bag and producing his notebook. John watched him with quiet bewilderment, finally asking, “Don’t tell me I’m the inspiration for your next song—there have been enough ballads about bastards like me already.”

“I wrote it yesterday,” Paul explained, taking a deep breath. “When I was…scared. To keep myself from going mad. And as it so happens, it _is_ about you.”

Despite himself, John was plainly starting to fade a bit—his eyes, already heavy-lidded to begin with, seemed to be fluttering, and Paul wondered if he was on something to help him sleep. He moved to get John’s guitar then, a sign of trust if ever there was one—he never would have let anyone else touch it. He had to pause and tune it properly, earning a small grin from John, and then turned it around so he could play it properly.

“It needs work still. But I’m hoping…you can help me fill in the rest.”

It was nothing musically bombastic, just a simple acoustic guitar with no pounding drum beat, no shredding electric sound. It was music at the bare bones of it, the very essence of its beauty. A sound that had once kept them both anchored in a dark world. As light flooded the room through the window and the colors gleamed around them, Paul played and sang of that world of shadows, of ghosts, of that aching sense of fulfillment that evaded him for so long—until so much of it seemed to fall into place. Until there it was, all along.

_“It seems I’ve been spending my whole life waiting….when you were there in the song.”_

He let the last note fade quietly away, then almost hesitantly, looked back towards John. He was sitting there in silence, but the expression on his face really said it all. Wordlessly, his mouth trembling a little, John just shook his head—but he reached his hand out, and he brushed Paul’s cheek with his fingers like he had wanted to do since nearly the first moment he laid eyes on him.

Paul let that measured silence speak for itself too, carefully wrapping John’s hand in his and moving it only so he could press a kiss to the knuckles instead. John’s breath hitched, their eyes met, and a slow smile of understanding passed between the two of them. They were the only two to understand it.

Outside, the light of an autumn sun beat down, washing all the world in a hazy gold.

* * *

 

**Two Months Later**

“I swear, if I hear that fuckin’ Christmas song one more time—”

“You’ll have to be more specific, they’ve only got about six of the same thing in rotation.”

“You know, _the_ one! Or any of them, really!”

“Bah, humbug, to you too. I happen to _like_ Christmas songs.”

“Yeah? Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“What are you saying, exactly?”

The banter went back and forth as John and Paul walked down the street together, both of them bundled in coats to keep out a sharp winter’s chill. While just barely enough to get the job done, the hands they had clasped in between them were an even better method of keeping a warmth between them. Frankly, John didn’t think it was fair—he looked like a ghastly, grumpy Ghost of Christmas Soon To Be Left For Dead In A Gutter all wrapped up from the cold, whereas Paul with his flushed cheeks, long lashes, and smart coat just looked…well, _cruel._

Tiny snowflakes whirled through the grey sky, ushering in a cold front just before the winter holiday began. With final exams behind them, there was time for last hurrah with the usual lot of friends before they all parted ways for a few weeks. And frankly, Paul was of the opinion that he deserved a drink—getting through exams and final term papers had been difficult enough, not in the least when he had John ready and willing to distract him from studying and writing at every possible opportunity.

John had his own reasons to celebrate something. Besides mercifully managing to pass his courses (well, most of them), he had now spent two months drug-free—though it had taken an outstanding amount of effort on his part. He tried to bluster around about it, insist that it was hardly a big deal, but Paul knew how hard it had really been on him. Over a year of casual and then more intense drug use couldn’t be shaken off easily, but he’d been there even in the lower periods, in the darker days.

And in the meantime, he had drifted away from Jane. There was no way around it anymore, not after everything that had happened. The disappointment on her face had been plain when he somewhat awkwardly broke whatever might have been growing in between them off, but she still managed a smile when he told her his promise to come see her in a show still stood. He had stuck to his word, and she was every bit as good as he thought she would be.

He had seen her around campus a few times since then, sometimes in the company of a good-looking blonde bloke. He hoped she could find there what wasn’t to be with him.

But in truth, his thoughts didn’t linger on it much. Not when there was John, and all of the complicated but beautiful mess that came with him.

The pub was mercifully warm, and fairly crowded too, bright conversation rising to match the cheerful holiday decorations all-around. Over it all, Paul saw a ring-covered hand raise up and wave them over, and he gestured to it. “There’s Ringo over there.”

“Excellent, I’m dying to get warm,” John griped, stamping his boots on the hardwood floor. They headed over to join the crowded table with the others, many of whom had already ordered drinks, and John gave a genuine grin.

“All right then, lads?”

“Go on and sit down, I’m starving,” George complained, waving the pair of them into the two empty seats at the table. They did so with good humor, Paul’s eyes sweeping over the members of their company. The current and former members of the Quarry Men were here, plus George and Ringo, who had been introduced a while back and got on splendidly. He had the distinct impression that sometimes the two of them would roll their eyes at each other behind his and John’s backs whenever things between them were a bit _too_ obvious.

He couldn’t have minded less. As he leaned across John to grab a menu, he felt him deliberately press into him a little, and the sensation still sent a light shiver down his spine. Even now, he could still do it.

They ordered drinks and food, their chatter adding to the atmosphere of the place, and as Paul joked along with the rest, his chest couldn’t help but swell with an immense fondness for all of them. Stuart was talking to Ringo and Ivan about his trip next term, George and Shotton squabbling about music while John egged them on, and as he leaned back in his seat, it was impossible to not feel a wave of utter contentment wash over him.

The fire in the stone fireplace behind them flickered in its grate, a bright beacon of orange, and Paul felt John’s gaze first on him, then on it, then back on him again. His hand moved to lightly brush Paul’s back, arm shifting to curl around his shoulders in a familiar, intimate gesture.

They hadn’t even been there a half-hour when the door opened once more, and a series of bright female voices with American accents filled the room. “Go ahead, Liv, find us a table,” one of them said, and a slender dark-haired girl detached herself from the rest to wander off and find space.

Several of them looked round when she came near, including George as he got to his feet to go and order more—and when his eyes landed on her, something of a tremor went through him like he had grabbed onto an electric fence, so much so that his hand shot out and knocked over a half-full glass of beer. It tipped over, spilling its contents onto the table, the floor, and half of John’s leg, but George had gone pale, and even with the swears and protests from his mates at the table, he didn’t seem to notice.

The girl had frozen in her tracks too, her already big eyes widening even more, and Paul bit back a smirk as he got up to retrieve more napkins. _Well,_ then.

George and the girl were no longer at the table when Paul came back, but nor was John. Ringo explained that he had gone outside, likely for a smoke break, and so Paul headed out into the cold evening as well. Night was starting to fall, that inky blue-black color settling down and causing the lights in shops and houses to sparkle like jewels in the descending darkness. John was indeed standing outside the pub, huddling in his coat as he finished a cigarette, and Paul came up behind him, settling a hand on his waist as he nocked his chin over his shoulder.

“Careful that booze on your leg doesn’t freeze up.”

“Bloody George,” John complained, but fairly good-naturedly. “Still, did you _see_ him? I’ve got five quid that says I know what happened there.”

“I’m not taking that bet. I’ll just say that it looked…a little familiar to me.”

John moved his free hand back, gliding his frigid fingers through Paul’s dark hair. “Mm. I’d say I do too. Poor kid, he’s like to need some advice.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Like…enjoy it. Take it all in, mate. Love it with all you have.”

Paul’s lips brushed John’s cheek at that. “Never took you for a sentimentalist, Lennon.”

John crushed his cigarette out, then turned around so he was facing Paul properly now, noting the gleam of the snowflakes in his hair. “Nah, me? I’m just someone who spent way too much time wanting things. There are others you just need to let be. Let happen.”

“There are,” Paul agreed, and he moved in at the same time John did—when they kissed, the warmth that blossomed in between them was enough to melt away any chill, to thaw whatever winter still clung to them. John cupped his face, pulled him closer, and when they had to part to catch their breaths for a moment, Paul only had one request.

“Oh, John…do that again.”

And they kissed once more, and the hues and shades of all the world swirled behind Paul’s eyes, a symphony of light that now, like always, whirled into a flurry of brilliant color.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! as always, feel free to drop me a line here or on tumblr at glimmerkeith.tumblr.com.


End file.
